


Dead or Alive

by Slanguage



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Castiel is basically Victor Henriksen, FBI, FBI Agent Castiel, Hunters Sam and Dean, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:44:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 109,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2241153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slanguage/pseuds/Slanguage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam Winchester are a topic of interest to the FBI, and one agent has been hunting them since the beginning. </p><p>Special Agent Castiel Novak has been hunting the Winchesters since his best friend Dean took off in his father’s Impala at fifteen after a mysterious house fire assumedly killed the rest of his family. Castiel wants answers about everything that happened in Lawrence—about what happened to his best friend, about what happened with the fire, and about why Dean ran. And now Dean’s name is beginning to pop back up onto the radar after eleven years of near silence, and Castiel is in charge of the case, but he’s not prepared at all for what he’s about to find.</p><p>Castiel has to let it all go. He has to forget that Dean was his best friend, and he has to forget that he loved him, and still loves him despite everything he has done. Because Dean Winchester is on the Most Wanted List, wanted dead or alive, and it’s Castiel job to find him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Then

**Author's Note:**

> Yay, a new story! Hope you all enjoy it!

Of all people, it had to be Dean Winchester.

Castiel Novak was seven years old when he became friends with Dean Winchester. They both tended to misbehave in class—Dean was always restless and too curious for his own good, while Castiel was typically forgetful and caused no trouble on purpose, but he was too awkward to live a peaceful life. They were both equally as destructive; Dean used to break all of the toys, and Castiel used to forget to turn the sink off and flood the bathroom. They both had no filters; Dean managed to offend a lot of people, even at a young age, and Castiel hadn’t realized that there were some things you just aren’t honest to people about. And, because of these shared negative characteristics, their teacher had sat them down next to each other at a table right next to her desk at the front of the room. Their friendship was unspoken and instant.

Since day one, Dean and Castiel began their reign of terror, the dynamic duo through elementary, junior high, and high school. They went from tormenting the playground with their accidental destruction to hanging out in boredom in the parking lot of the neighborhood gas station. From the first day to the last, Dean and Castiel were a force to be reckoned with.

They were constantly together—they lived on the same street, only a handful of houses away from each other, and they could be seen constantly running back and forth by their nosy neighbors. While friendships fell apart in the rocky pre-teen years, theirs held strong, and they were practically considered parts of each other’s families. Castiel always knew he could rely on Dean, and Dean could always rely on Castiel.

They both knew that.

Castiel remembered once when Dean’s parents had a big fight. Dean’s family life wasn’t always terrible—their mother was always around, a ray of sunshine. She was one of the kindest people Castiel had ever met. She could usually be found in the kitchen, cooking and baking, singing old Beatles songs as she worked. Dean’s dad, though, seemed to be a bit of an issue—sometimes he took off for several days, and he worked freelance jobs fixing things up, mainly cars. Dean’s dad was a little more military, a little more prickly. When Dean’s parents fought, although it was rare, it was usually closer to an explosion.

When they were nine, the Winchester adults had a terrible fight, and Dean knocked on Castiel’s front door at about eleven at night with his little brother in tow, and he asked if they could stay there for the night. Castiel’s mother nearly melted right onto the floor, and the Winchester boys were set up with extra covers and blankets in Castiel and his brother Balthazar’s room. Balth could sleep through a hurricane and a tornado simultaneously any night, so he never even noticed, and Dean’s little brother Sam was only five, and he was asleep in less than five minutes, snoozing curled in a ball wrapped in a bunch of scratchy blankets. Castiel and Dean had huddled in the corner of the room under the window, watching their sleeping brothers, both of them too old for their age as they spoke of their familial struggles, and Dean told his best friend that he didn’t understand why his dad always had to go away all the time, why he never told him why.

The Winchester parents had come searching for their children early the next morning, and Dean had reluctantly pulled Sammy behind him as they dragged him back home, chiding him for leaving with his brother like that, and Castiel had felt so torn up about letting Dean leave, even if it was only a couple of doors down.

Dean was there when Castiel came running to his house and pounded on the door when he was ten to tell him that his parents were adopting again.

Castiel’s entire family was adopted. His father was an adopted child, and his mother had been an orphan. They adopted his older brother Balthazar when he was a baby, adopting Castiel at the same young age when Balthazar was four. When Castiel was six and Balthazar was ten, they adopted two twin baby girls named Charlie and Anna. And then, when Castiel was ten, they decided that four kids wasn’t nearly enough.

When they told Castiel and his siblings that they were expecting a new addition to the family, a boy four years younger than Castiel and two years older than the twins, Castiel couldn’t have been more excited. When they told them the boy’s name, and how he would be joining them in a week, Castiel had excitedly ran out the door and straight to the Winchester house, unable to contain his excitement.

Dean was the first to find out about the new Novak adoption, because Castiel could barely believe that he was going to have a younger brother named Sam, too.

“His name is actually Samandriel,” Castiel remembers telling Dean happily, shrugging, “but they’ll both be Sam, same age and everything.”

Dean and Castiel had found it both hilarious and exciting. When Sam N. and Sam W. ended up becoming good friends, it had felt like providence.

Dean always stuck by Castiel, even when they became different calibers of people. Dean had his military father’s influence, and he was a little more tough, a little more rugged. Castiel, meanwhile, had a father who was a psychologist and a mother who was a social worker, so he was a little more soft-spoken, a little more analytical and open-minded.

In junior high, this became a problem.

When kids are eleven or twelve, they think they know the answer to everything, and they think that who they are is the person they will always be. Castiel was a bit of a nerd, and he was alright with that; he liked to read the same way he liked to run track, and he liked taking honors classes and learning. Dean was a bit more on the athletic side, a soccer player, but he knew probably as much of the geek culture as Castiel did—Dean was the one who already had almost all of the episodes of _Star Trek_ memorized even before he convinced Castiel to watch them. But stereotypes reigned free in those years, and it came back to bite Castiel in the ass rather quickly.

Castiel was teased relentlessly, but none of that bothered him badly. It was when they pursued him when he walked away, when their taunting became physical, that he panicked.

One day, it was bad.

Castiel was attempting to avoid a group of unruly boys during lunch when he was in seventh grade, twelve years old, and he thought to sneak around the back of the library to get away from them. But they saw him walking there before he could get out of their line of sight and they cornered him there, and they pushed him into the wall, giving him a bloody nose and scrapes on his hands and elbows, and they laughed as they tore his character apart, calling him pathetic and weird and geeky, rolling their eyes when Castiel stuttered trying to tell them to stop.

And like there was a bat signal in the sky, Dean Winchester had appeared, and he had been pissed.

All he had needed to see was Castiel standing against the wall like he wanted to shrink into it, the slightest sign of blood on his hands, and Dean had rounded on the kids, his eyes flashing in a way Castiel had never seen them before. He remembered the fierceness Dean had spoken with, the way he had spoken through clenched teeth, and he told them to leave and threatened them with consequences of ever messing with Castiel again. And Castiel hadn’t minded Dean’s protection as much as most kids would have—he didn’t say anything when Dean insisted he go to the nurse to disinfect the scrapes and to get a tissue for the nose bleed, and Dean hovered there with him the entire time, shooting him a grin every time Castiel glanced in his direction.

They never spoke about it, really—Castiel hadn’t told Dean how helpless he had felt as he cowered against the wall, not wanting to turn to meanness or violence or else he would be the same as the bullies, and how thankful he was that Dean had stepped up and stepped in to stop them from hurting Castiel physically or verbally. They never spoke directly about what happened when they were in junior high, so Castiel never felt like he was keeping such a grand secret about how that was the day his crush on Dean began.

Castiel learned over the next few years following that event that he took a liking to both genders—males and females both appealed to him, and he could appreciate attractiveness in either gender. But the crush persisted, a spark until it caught into a flame, when one day when Castiel and Dean were walking home after a day of their freshman year in high school, when Castiel had looked at Dean and saw him smiling at him that it happened—the flame. Castiel realized he was in love with his best friend, one that seemed to only be straight, and he was hit with that realization straight in the chest.

But he knew he couldn’t do anything. He knew that it would potentially ruin everything. So he didn’t react. He admired Dean from a distance and stuck by his side when he needed him, and they were best friends. Castiel tried not to let the way Dean made his palms sweat and his heart beat frantically and his thoughts turn to mush—he didn’t let it overcome him to the point that he couldn’t handle it. He knew it wasn’t the time, not the discussion for then and now, so he let it go when he was around him.

Castiel always was the closest with his mother, so she was the only one he told his feelings to, and he watched the pity cover her face. She had told him softly to be careful, and that fifteen was too young of an age to really know if you loved someone, because people can change quickly at their age. He told her that he knew Dean, and he knew that he would always stick by him. She had touched his shoulder and kissed his forehead, and she had told him to be wary of the fall.

Sometimes, Castiel had been convinced Dean had felt the same way for him.

Dean only mentioned girls that he liked to Castiel out of passing, never talking deeper about it, and Castiel was worried that Dean had caught on and didn’t want to possibly talk about _those_ kinds of feelings because he had known about how Castiel felt and rejected it, but Castiel wondered later if it might be because he wasn’t telling the truth, because he was just trying to see how Castiel reacted.

Dean would almost telepathically know when Castiel was upset or annoyed, even when he wasn’t around that day. One day, Castiel and Balthazar had gotten into a big fight over the phone, and Dean had somehow known to show up ten minutes later with a handful of those horrible sci-fi movies he loved so much and a big grin, telling Castiel that he hoped he didn’t have any plans, because he was going to educate his taste in movies.

And, sometimes, just sometimes, when Castiel and Dean were sitting next to each other, Castiel would feel Dean’s leg touch his and stay there, a constant reassuring heat, and he would pretend not to notice but he knew he would act happier the rest of the day, and he was sure Dean had to have noticed both the contact and how it made him happier, but still neither of them said a word.

Castiel had been so sure it was real. He was so insanely sure. He wouldn’t have been able to wait much longer in order to find out—he would have been too impatient, after waiting for so long.

And then it happened.

He was fifteen. It was about a week after Dean’s fifteenth birthday. He would never forget the date, the time. He would always be able to remember that one fixed point in time for as long as he lived.

Castiel remembered being woken up by the screaming sirens, the sound of talking outside in the early morning hours. Castiel had gotten up, waking up his younger brother from the bunk above him right before his mother had walked in, looking confused, checking on them. The sirens had woken all of the kids up—even Balthazar, from the guest room in the attic for the weekend he was home from college, was roused by the noise. The Novak family poured out of the front door, tucked up against the cold, and they stepped into the street to get a good look at what was happening.

Castiel remembered how cold he felt when he saw that the Winchester house was burning.

He remembered how it felt like the whole world had stopped turning on its axis, how it felt like it was falling through time and space. It felt like his feet had left the ground, like he was tumbling through his horror and disbelief, like this couldn’t possibly be real and he had to be having a nightmare, and he would wake up and push the memory of the dream to the back of his mind and hug Dean and Sam the next time he saw them. He felt like he was going to be sick as he looked at the house that was a second home for him burning down to the ground, felt like he was going to lose consciousness, but only one thought was repeating again and again through his head, like a nervous whisper: _Dean._

_Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean._

And Castiel was running.

He took off running, not even able to hear when his parents shouted his name behind him. He ran faster than he had at any track meet, but he barely made it close enough to the house that he could feel the heat of the flames before arms were closing in on him from behind, Balthazar’s arms, and he hissed, “ _Cassie. Stop_.”

Castiel hadn’t said anything. Balth had told him later how eerie it had been—Castiel just stood, restrained by Balthazar, and stared with a sickly pale face at the house that was burning, not moving. Castiel had felt like he had been frozen. He felt like a broken toy that wouldn’t be able to move anymore like he once had, that wouldn’t be able to talk anymore. He felt like he was missing a vital part, a vital piece, and it would stop him from being him.

Balthazar managed to drag him back several steps, back to their family, and Castiel’s parents each had a hand on one of his shoulders as they watched the fire go out, a structure that was there only a few hours ago almost gone forever. Castiel remembered staring at the building expectantly, as if he was waiting for Dean to swagger out the door with a smirk, rolling his eyes and telling Castiel not to always look so worried about him.

Castiel remembered his father murmuring to one of the police officers, asking him if he knew what happened. He told him that one of the neighbors had called the police when they noticed the house fire, and that the front part of the second floor had been completely decimated by the time they had gotten there.

Castiel had felt sick. The whole family had slept on the second floor. It felt like some twisted, horrible dream.

It only got worse.

Castiel’s parents let him stay home from school that entire week following the fire, worried for his near-catatonia, worried for his mental health. He caught his father studying him like an experiment some days, and it made Castiel a little mad, but he didn’t overall mind it, not really. Days passed without any news, without any calls from the hospital by Dean, and every passing moment made Castiel feel like there was a knife in his stomach, and someone was twisting it.

It was a week later, and it was his parents that heard it from the police first. They gathered Castiel and sat him down in his father’s study on the first floor, both of them looking horrified and worried and scared as they stared at their son, his mother’s eyes shining with sadness and pity Castiel had only seen in them last when he had confessed his feelings about Dean to her only several months before. They had looked so nervous that Castiel had known something was wrong immediately. Castiel knew that they had heard something about the fire, and he wanted to throw up when he thought that this might be it—this might have been it, hearing the official word on what happened to the fate of the Winchesters.

He had sat facing his parents, watched their nervous jittering, before his mother finally came straight out with, “Sweetie, I talked to the police today—they’ve come to a conclusion on their investigation as to what happened at—”

“Castiel,” his dad had started slowly, and Castiel had known this would hurt. “The, um, the fire’s origin was a little mysterious, but it seemed to have started from the inside of the house, on the second floor. This, uh—shit, I hate to have to—Castiel, they found three bodies in the fire, but could only identify Mary Winchester.”

“Three?” Castiel remembered asking, as though in a daze. His parents had glanced at each other again.

“The car was missing,” his mother told him slowly, watching for his reaction. “John’s car—the Impala, it was gone when the police and fire department got there. They—they think that Dean took it.”

“Dean?” Castiel asked, confused. “Why would he take it? He wouldn’t leave; he would call the police.”

“The police have come to the conclusion, Castiel, something that might hurt for you to hear, but I want you to know this, okay?” his father said, leaning forward, his eyes soft and pained. “Castiel, the police believe that Dean was the one that set the fire, killing his family. They believed that he then stole the family car and ran away. They don’t understand why, or where he would go—the police want to talk to you soon, Castiel, want to understand why Dean would do this—”

“He wouldn’t,” Castiel said immediately, but it was only until after the words left his mouth that the shock to his system properly hit him like a swift baseball bat to the sternum. Castiel gasped in breath, feeling like he was drowning, his head spinning wildly, and he was shaking his head. “No, no, Dean wouldn’t do that—he’s not bad, no—he’s—he loves his family, he—he would kill himself before he hurt Sammy, or his mom—no, no, they’re wrong, they have to be wrong, they _have_ to be—”

Castiel hadn’t realized it at the time, but he had been clutching at his bare arms, his fingernails digging into his skin, like he wanted to rip it off to reveal a new person underneath, one that didn’t feel so much pain and betrayal and disbelief and sadness and anger. He had started hyperventilating at some point, tears rolling down his face, because he remembered his mother and father kneeling in front of him, trying to force his grip off of his arms, trying to speak to him in calming voices as if that would snap him out of this fucking horror that his life had become in a span of only days. It felt like the world around him had shattered. The nice, safe world he lived in where nothing could hurt him was gone, broken in small, unrecognizable pieces at his feet, and he was left in a world that was cold and filled with horrible fire and betrayal and best friends that couldn’t possibly have killed their entire family and ran, no, it wasn’t possible, no, no, no, no . . .

It took a long time for Castiel to learn how to breathe again. Long after the police had come to speak to him, long after Balthazar had gone back to college because he couldn’t stand to watch Castiel break down anymore, long after sophomore year had passed and Dean had never come home. Castiel felt like he was underwater for years, until the end of his junior year in high school, when he suddenly—resurfaced.

And he knew what he wanted to do.

He had to find Dean.

Castiel always had the same life goal for himself—he always wanted to go into law, whether it be as a lawyer or law enforcement. He loved law, and he loved how nice and orderly and clean-cut it was. He loved the danger, and he loved the mind games. He had always known that was where he wanted to go—ever since he realized his uncle was in the FBI, ever since his uncle started giving him true crime books every time there was an occasion or he came to visit. So it felt like second nature when Castiel threw himself into it—felt himself learning how to track people, learning how to use little details in their personalities to understand how to find them. It felt normal for him to immerse himself into sociology and psychology and law classes; he thought nothing of it when he was constantly reading about little things, studying maps and learning the names of small towns never usually cared about all over the country and into Canada. His parents were worried about him, but they let him go—they let him graduate high school with top marks, and they let him get into an ivy league school and graduate with a masters in criminology in only five years, and they let him train for the FBI and they let him get a career there, a career propelled by his uncle, who was more than proud to find Castiel following in his footsteps. They let him obsess himself with his work, let him solve crimes all over the nation, because they didn’t know—they might have suspected, but they didn’t _know_. At first, they hadn’t the faintest idea that he was still constantly investigating, still restlessly searching for any sign of Dean Winchester. At first, they didn’t know that he saw his name popping up sometimes—credit card scams, shoplifting, grave desecrations. At first, they didn’t know that he was living every day of his life analyzing Dean Winchester, trying to understand every way that he thought, trying to understand what had made him do it.

Or what had made him run from what _had_ done it.

Castiel knew that, one day, he was going to find him, and he was going to ask him what had happened. To him, to them, to his family. Castiel had so many questions, and one day he was going to find Dean, and he was going to ask him. Castiel could wait—he was patient, oh-so patient—but, sooner rather than later, he would find Dean Winchester, and he would find out what happened in Lawrence, Kansas, that night in 1994.  

The opportunity came to him sooner than he thought—and he couldn’t wait to get started.


	2. Let the Flames Begin

Castiel sighed heavily, letting his head fall onto his desk.

He had been working the same case for the last six weeks, and he held little to no real interest in it—a man had killed his wife and disappeared, leaving no other bodies in his wake, thankfully. The FBI wanted their hands on him just because he seemed to be creating quite the mess up and down the east coast—stolen cars and robbed liquor stores and tormenting strangers at gunpoint at late hours of the night. So they called in Castiel for advice—he was the best at finding people, according to many at the Bureau, the absolute best at his job. And he hated to sound like a brat, but he knew it. He knew he was good at finding people—but he was only good at it when they _actually_ left something interesting behind to look for, when he _actually_ wanted to find them. He could give less than a shit about this common unstable criminal. _Anyone_ could find him. He wasn’t so sure why his uncle was possibly stressing this one case when Castiel could have his personal pick at most any that fall onto his desk.

Castiel had been at the Bureau for what felt like a long time, but really wasn’t at all. It must have been four years already—four years of doing the same thing over and over, of finding the bad guy and putting him behind bars and going to trial and doing it over again. Castiel was called in to hunt down a lot of people, and he usually did well, working on more than one case at a time. He was considered a treasure here at his Denver field office—they jokingly all refer to him as a rising star.

Because of his work, and because of his rather controlling uncle, Castiel was already a Special Agent at the age of twenty-six, but really all he felt like he was, was tired.

No matter what he worked on, in the back of his mind and tugging at his heart, was the same name: Dean Winchester.

It had been eleven years of looking for Dean Winchester, for sometimes catching the scent and knowing where he was but not being allowed to look for him—jurisdiction issues came into effect with his job, as well as the issue that Dean wasn’t nearly as wanted in Lawrence as he had been, say, ten years ago—so Castiel was stuck in his office-cubical hybrid watching Dean Winchester’s progress, sometimes losing him, sometimes finding him again. He watched him and wondered when he would finally be able to catch up to him, wondering when he would just get his damn answers.

He closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around his head, still leaning on his desk, and he let out a long breath he hadn’t even realized he had been holding.

Castiel hated himself for it but, even after all of these years, he still cared for Dean Winchester. He had been so devoted to him before the incident that it was not surprise Dean would still mean something to him after the fact, but he couldn’t believe that he might still have to classify this feeling as love after all this time. He didn’t know the person Dean had become and he didn’t know what he looked like or what his voice sounded like and he especially didn’t know if he had actually set his home on fire and killed three people—but he loved him. He loved him so much that he couldn’t help but to feel that, deep in his heart, he never believed it for a second.

So it was all up to finding Dean. It was all up to finding out what side of himself had been lying to him the entire time—the part that swears he is innocent, or the part that swears he is guilty.

Castiel took another deep breath, soothed by the silence.

And then his phone started ringing.

Castiel groaned but fished his cell phone out of the pocket in his trench coat hung over the back of his chair, hitting the button to answer it. “Special Agent Novak.”

“Cassie, it’s so _formal_ ,” Bathazar’s voice on the other line complained teasingly. “Why on earth do your answer your cell phone like you’re in the office?”

“Because I _am_ in the office,” Castiel replied. “And I also use this phone for business purposes. Ergo, formality.”

Balthazar snorted.

Balthazar was always the sibling Castiel was the closest with—he was the sibling who had been around his whole life, the older brother that watched over him from the start. He always protected his brother, especially after the Winchester fiasco, as they usually referred to it as when they had to. Castiel always teased that Balthazar was the strangest implant in their family of the adopted—Balth recently spent several years in Europe, adopting their accent, and now no one could believe he was from Kansas. But Balthazar meant the most to him—he was the one who always stuck with Castiel, always wanted him to feel better when he was down. He helped the most to keep him sane, and Castiel appreciated it in words he had trouble attempting to express.

So hearing from Balthazar was never as bad as getting a call from, say, his father. Castiel probably would have just hung up the phone if he had heard his father’s voice on the other line.

He knew what most of his family was going to say. With Balthazar, it was at least a thirty percent chance.

Apparently, today was of the thirty percent.

“You eat today?” Balthazar asked casually, and Castiel sighed heavily.

“Depends on what day it is,” Castiel replied hoarsely, running a hand through his hair, his eyes still closed.

Castiel could feel his brother’s unhappiness through the phone as he responded curtly, “Thursday.”

“I’ll be fine until mid-day Friday then,” Castiel half-teased, leaning back in his office chair. “Did Mom call you? Is she wondering if I’m withering away behind my desk?”

“Charlie, actually,” Balthazar said dismissively, obviously as willing to answer a question straight as Castiel was at the moment—not at all. “Come on, Cassie, you really need to talk to someone about this.”

“I talk to you and Mom and the twins at least three times a week about it,” Castiel pointed out, “since you all never fucking stop calling me to talk to me about it.”

“It’s an unhealthy obsession, and you know it.”

“I could hang up.”

“But you won’t, because you never have before.”

It wasn’t a lie. “What do you want, Balthazar?”

“I want to make sure my baby brother is surviving,” his brother replied in his foreign European accent. “We’re just worried about you, you know—all of us. I know I don’t bother you about it a lot, because I know how upset this makes you, but have you ever come to think about if this might not be the best choice for you, working in your job?”

“There is nothing wrong with my job.”

“Sure—long hours, terrible pay, constant travel. Nothing inhumane about that at all.”

“And let me guess—you’re getting ready for a night on the town.”

“It’s eleven at night here in Miami, Cassie. This is what _normal people_ do.”

“Are you wearing a v-neck? Because, I swear to God, if you’re wearing another one of those god-awful v-necks, I’m hanging up on you.”

“What was the last thing you were thinking about before you answered this phone call?” Balthazar demanded of him, catching him off-guard enough that Castiel hesitated. “Even I can answer that—Dean fucking Winchester. Castiel, it’s been eleven years since you last saw the homicidal maniac. You think about him all the time—that’s not fucking healthy.”

“Neither is drinking my liver away, but you don’t hear me getting Mom and Dad and everyone else on the planet annoying you about it practically every hour of the day, do you?”

“Castiel,” Balth said measuredly, “this obsessive form of thinking is where serial killers come from.”

“I hunt serial killers, Balthazar, I think I know a thing or two more about where their line of thinking comes from,” Castiel replied sharply. “Now, unless you have something more interesting to talk about, I have a case I need to get back to.”

“Shouldn’t you be getting home?”

“I should be able to find this guy—I’ve been working on his case for weeks.”

“You’re probably going to be able to find him better if you get a couple of hours of sleep than if you don’t. Did you sleep last night?”

“It’s Wednesday?”

“Thursday, Castiel. Fuck, are you even human?”

Castiel sighed heavily. “Balthazar, I honestly can’t have this conversation right now—”

He was interrupted on his end by a knock on his door, solid and unwavering, and he knew it had to be important if they were here so late. He sighed again—once too many in the last couple of minutes, in his own opinion.

“Hold on, Balth, I’m being paged.” He set the phone down on the desk, hitting the mute button on the microphone, before he called to whomever was at the door to come in, running a hand through his hair.

His partner, Naomi, poked her head into his office, smiling pleasantly. “Castiel,” she greeted calmly. “It’s no surprise to find you here this late.”

“You’re still here, too,” he pointed out, smiling at her kindly—they weren’t great friends, barely even friends, but he had worked with her so long that they had a professional camaraderie that was hard to find with many people in the office around here, not when Castiel has the demeanor he has. “Come on in, Naomi—you’re always hovering in the doorway, it makes me anxious.”

“Nervous habit,” she explained, stepping deep into the office, approaching the desk. She nodded at the cell phone sitting on top of his files. “You’re on the phone?”

“It can wait,” he explained. “What’s up?”

Naomi smiled. She was several years older than Castiel, but she was ten times more vicious—she was more on the side of tackling killers to the ground, whereas Castiel wanted to just track their locations and point Naomis in their direction. She had brown-red hair she always pulled back into a tight, utilitarian bun, and she always wore a black pencil skirt, black blazer, and a white button-up, and none of them ever had a single wrinkle on them. She also wore the same small black heels—Castiel typically wondered how many of the same outfit she actually owned. She crossed the room to his desk, holding a manila folder in her hands, and she was practically simpering at him.

“You’ll never guess what just got faxed to you,” she said.

“Humor me,” he replied easily, grinning at the thought of another chase, another person to track.

Naomi sat down at one of the chairs on the other side of his desk, looking him right in the eye as she said, “Palo Alto, California. There was a mysterious fire in an apartment not far away from Stanford University. The apartment is leased to the deceased—and a man named Sam Winchester. An antique Chevy Impala was spotted leaving the scene when emergency personnel arrived.”

She slid the file to him over the desk, her grin growing wider.

“Your flight leaves in twenty minutes,” she told him.

Castiel couldn’t answer at first—he just reached out and grabbed the phone from where he had placed it, not even looking at it as he turned it off of mute and raised it to his ear, not even sure if he was going to be able to speak.

“Balthazar,” Castiel somehow managed to say, “I’m going to have to call you back. You’ll never believe what just hit my desk.”

“Cassie?” Balthazar asked, sounding worried—but Castiel ended the call, turning the phone on silent before he tucked it into his back pocket, standing up quickly and grabbing his jackets off the back of his chair, shrugging on the suit jacket before throwing the trench coat on messily overtop, not even bothering to fix his tie. He looked up and met Naomi’s eyes—she was grinning at him, now standing, and she looked vicariously excited for him.

Castiel said to her, “This changes everything.”

“It does,” she said, and then nodded to the door. “Go.”

“Thank you,” he threw behind his shoulder as he rushed from the room, shoving folders into his briefcase as he sprinted through the empty halls, normally bustling with agents. He rushed around a custodian before breaking into the stairway, laughing loudly the moment the door had shut behind him.

He couldn’t believe it.

He couldn’t _believe_ it.

 _Sam_ Winchester?

It was fucking _Christmas_.

*

Castiel looked up at the apartment building as the local liaison filled him in.

“Samuel Winchester, pre-law graduate from Stanford University who recently passed the LSAT with an impressive score to show for it, shared the apartment with nursing student Jessica Moore, who was found deceased in the apartment. Fire marshals haven’t been able to get in to have a good look around yet, but they believe from what they have seen that it may have been faulty wiring, although it appears that none of the other apartments were so much as touched by the fire. The car got called in for identification because, when the cops and fire rescue were pulling up, it was peeling out of the parking lot, and the timing was a little suspicious. Did I hear that this car ties back to another possible arson case?”

“Years ago,” Castiel responded, still staring at the building, wondering how wrong he had been about other things. “You’re sure Miss Moore was the body found in the fire?”

“Yup—she was in the room where the fire began, but it was noticeably a female figure. Chances are best that it was her. Already called the poor girl’s parents to tell them the news.”

“I’m going to want to talk to any mutual friends or contacts of Moore’s and Winchester’s,” Castiel said, “and keep it on the down-low. No one needs to know that the Bureau is seeing something suspicious with this investigation. All evidence can be relinquished—I just need character witnesses, descriptions. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” the agent said, his eyebrows up. “Anything else I could help you with?”

“I’m alright, thanks,” Castiel said, already lost in his thoughts, and he thought he caught the agent rolling his eyes as he turned and walked away from Castiel, but he didn’t care enough to pull out the power card. He crossed his arms, glancing around at all of the onlookers, pursing his lips.

How had he thought to overlook something as simple as this?

How had he not thought to look into universities—to search for names there?

So Dean hadn’t been the only one to flee that night—he had taken his brother with him, and that fit what Castiel knew about him so much more clearly than letting Sammy die had. But he couldn’t understand, couldn’t believe—one fire was a tragic accident. What was two? A horror movie?

What was happening with these brothers?

Castiel look a deep breath of the smoky air before letting it go, thinking hard.

Sam must have went to middle school, high school—he went to fucking _Stanford_ , which meant that he was definitely not a dull cookie. And he even managed to get a pre-law degree before Castiel, a professional, managed to catch on that he was even alive. Sam could have possibly lived a nearly-normal life—with Dean as his guardian?

This case was getting weirder and weirder the more and more Castiel thought about it.

Castiel ran a hand through his hair, knowing one thing for certain.

He wasn’t going to be sleeping or eating any time soon.

*

Castiel sat up in his hotel room, staring at pictures.

Jessica Moore. And Sam Winchester.

Jessica Moore had been a beautiful young lady—blonde curls, big eyes, a great smile. She was charming even in the photograph; she looked vulnerable and vicious all at once, breakable and strong. She aspired to be a nurse, to help people. She was taken long before her time, and Castiel felt bad for a victim that came across his desk for one of the first times since the beginning, when he learned that caring about them only slowed him down.

And then there was Sam.

When the Winchester fiasco occurred, Sam had been ten, edging closer to eleven, and Castiel could see the resemblance in the Sam looking back at him brightly with a smile from a recent student photo. His hair was down and curling under his ears, hanging into his eyes, brown and smiling, and he had dimples and a bright smile. Every one of his friends that Castiel managed to talk to laughed when they told him that Sam was six foot four—a hulking giant of a guy, one of them had said, but one of the kindest they knew. When Castiel asked if they knew Sam had a brother, only one said that they had heard him mention one—said that they rarely talked anymore, that they had a bit of a falling out a couple of years ago, but Sam never talked about it, always shrugged it off.

Castiel rubbed his eyes, frowning.

So, after years of not speaking, Dean had showed up out of the blue and—what? Kidnapped his brother, killed his brother’s girlfriend?

It didn’t make sense. There was no logic—there wasn’t even any sense of serial killer logic, of criminal logic. This was crisscrossed and pounded into something that didn’t even resemble rational thinking.

How was Castiel supposed to track something that didn’t make even the slightest of sense?

Castiel sat back in the office chair in his hotel room, staring at the photos, and he thought.

*

“You have to let me look for him,” Castiel argued.

“Novak, you’re one of my best,” his boss, a kind but mischievous man named Gabriel, told him, “but I can’t waste my resources on something like this. It’s useless—a complete dead-end—and you know it.”

“Four people have died in a fire in the last eleven years, and these two brothers are connected with at least three of the victims,” Castiel argued, holding the case files up. “This is _weird_ , Gabriel. You can’t deny that there is some major fish-stink coming off of this case, and, if I had all of my time to devote to this, I could find them. We could have serial arsonists on our hands.”

“Castiel—”

“Gabriel. You know as well as I do that we can’t let them keep getting away. This is the second time they have been connected to a fire that we know of—what if you give me time to look into it, and I find more than a couple of grave desecrations? What if arsons have been following these two around the country for _years_ , and we just didn’t know to look for them?”

Even Castiel didn’t believe it—he had a feeling he would have noticed such an obvious hint before—and Gabriel damn well didn’t believe it either with the look he was giving Castiel. But Castiel could see him giving in, slowly. Gabriel knew how much the Winchester case had always meant to Castiel, or else he wouldn’t have allowed him to use government resources to go check it out in California. He knew how much Castiel would give to this operation, and he had to know that the input would be worth the result.

Given all the resources in the world, Castiel could find them. And Gabriel knew it.

He sighed heavily behind his desk, reaching up and rubbing his face. “Alright—alright. I’ll allow this. I’ll send it in for your uncle to give the final say today and get you a small task force as soon as I can. Just—Jesus, Castiel, just get the hell out of this building, alright?”

“I leave,” Castiel protested weakly. Gabriel raised an eyebrow.

“What day is it?”

“Saturday.”

“Castiel, it’s _Tuesday_. Do you know what day Thursday is?”

“Uh . . . Thursday?”

“ _Thanksgiving_. You worked the Winchester case _two weeks_ ago.” Gabriel got up from behind his desk. “I know for a fact you’ve got a shitload of a family down in your old modest country town you originated from, so please tell me you have a flight to get there.”

“What time is it?”

“Ten o’clock in the morning, Castiel.”

“Shit,” Castiel said, suddenly getting to his feet. “I’m driving there—do you need me around, or—?”

“Go,” Gabriel coaxed, waving him out the door. “Get the hell out of here—and get some sleep and some fucking food, why don’t you?”

“I’ll work on it,” Castiel called, waving to him once. “See you Friday!”

“I better not see you until _at least_ this time next week, Castiel, or _I swear to God_!” Gabriel yelled at him as Castiel moved through the office, drawing a lot of attention from the staff. Castiel ignored him, even when Gabriel called out again, sounding about as fond as he did annoyed and worried, “ _Novak_!”

Castiel was out the door without another word, thinking that, if he broke a couple of speeding laws, he might be able to make it home in time to both eat his mother’s cooking and rub his new task force in his family’s face.

 _Unhealthy obsession, my ass_ , Castiel grumbled to himself, grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com
> 
> x Slang


	3. It's All Over

Castiel rang the doorbell to his parents’ house at around six, nervously smoothing down his hair as he waited for the door to open, clutching his briefcase in one hand and his duffle in the other, torn between buzzing with nervous energy—he was so happy to be back home, happy to see them all again—and exhaustion; he might actually be able to sleep here, if they were willing to stop nagging him for long enough to get a moment of silence.

The door flew open, and one of his younger sisters stood in the doorway, staring at him in shock.

“What is this?” she demanded loudly, probably just loud enough so she could be heard in the kitchen, grinning. “Is this the absentee prodigal child I see? Did he truly take the time out of his schedule to come see us?”

“Shut up, Charlie,” Castiel replied, rolling his eyes as he stepped through the door into the childhood home he knew well and tended to miss, setting his bags in the entryway. “Missed you too, loser.”

She laughed and threw her arms around Castiel’s neck, hugging him tightly, and he hugged her back, rolling his eyes. “You know I missed you, asshole,” she replied, hitting him on the shoulder as she pulled away. “But you never call, you never write . . .”

“I barely have a minute to myself anymore, Charlie,” he laughed, “but I will remember to use that minute to selflessly call you.”

She laughed. “You better!”

“Don’t hog him!” his mother insisted as she walked into the hall, ripping off a pair of potholders from her hands, grinning widely. “I didn’t think you would make it to dinner, Castiel,” she told him, hugging him even tighter. “But, luckily for you, I plan ahead, so I made extra.”

“My lucky day,” he said, kissing his mom on the top of her head.

“Have you been eating?” she demanded the moment Castiel’s father turned the corner and walked up to him, hugging him as well, saving him from answering her question.

Castiel gave up two more hugs—one to his little brother Samandriel, which made him think about Sam Winchester again, and another to Anna, Charlie’s twin, who told him that it was great to see him again—before he was finally free, and he took a deep relieved breath before remembering that he miscounted.

He remembered this fact rather starkly when he saw Balthazar fuming in the doorway to the living room and, the moment that Castiel looked him in eye, he knew he was in deep shit.

“Did you happen to forget to do something, Castiel?” Balthazar asked him, narrowing a glare in on his brother. His parents and siblings looked between them like they were watching a tennis match, eyes wide, none of them willing to step in. Castiel almost sighed.

He thought about it, and thought about it, and then frowned. “I can’t think of anything,” he admitted to Balthazar.

Well, that was certainly the wrong answer.

Balthazar turned an alarming shade of red before he snapped, “Remember when you hung up on me to talk to someone about something more important? You were supposed to call me back—that was November second, Castiel. _That was twenty fucking days ago_.”

“Ah,” Castiel said. “I remember that now.”

“You remember—” Balthazar said, and then reached up to rub his hand through his hair. “You’re going to singlehandedly make me prematurely gray, Castiel. No one has heard from you in twenty days.”

“I was . . . busy,” Castiel replied lamely, grimacing.

Balthazar’s eyes flashed. “Oh, then I want to hear about what had you so damn busy that you couldn’t remember to pick up the damn phone when one of us called you. I want to hear all about it, Castiel.”

“Alright,” Castiel said, and then grinned as he leaned over to pick up his briefcase. “If you insist.”

“I do,” Balthazar sneered. “Enlighten me.”

Castiel pulled out the file he needed before putting down his briefcase, gesturing. “Does everyone want to sit down first?”

“Let’s all move into the dining room, if you two are going to have this pissing contest of yours,” his mother sighed, rolling her eyes, but did nothing to stop it—so she, too, must have been curious enough to know where all of her son’s attention had been focused the last several days. “The food’s on the table, but Rachel is still sleeping.”

Rachel was the newest addition to the Novak family—a new addition at the age of two, who had been introduced to everyone this time last year. She was a sweet girl—she slept a lot, and had quite the angelic laugh. Castiel felt a sickly feeling of guilt when he realized that he had almost forgotten the poor girl existed, primarily because she wasn’t old enough to call and bother him about his eating or sleeping habits.

He was going to have to start making a little bit more of an effort with his family, it was safe to say. No matter how much they nagged.

The whole family moved to the kitchen table and took their seats—Charlie and Samandriel actually began to eat, looking at Castiel and waiting patiently for his explanation. Castiel grinned around at them, nearly shaking with excitement to tell them the news—they did not look nearly as pleased.

Castiel began.

“Palo Alto, California—right off the campus of Stanford University—there was a mysterious fire in an apartment.” He held up the picture of the charred apartment from the street view. His family eyed it cautiously before he slipped it away. “A young woman died—a nursing student named Jessica Moore.” He held up Jessica’s picture, but put it away quickly. Hers wasn’t the best part, after all. “She lived there with her boyfriend, who was the primary on the lease. Her boyfriend was a pre-law student, attending Stanford with a full-ride scholarship. Her boyfriend’s name—” He held up the best picture of them all, “is Sam Winchester. _The_ Sam Winchester. To top it all off—when emergency personnel arrived on the scene, they reported seeing an antique Chevy Impala peeling out of the parking lot.” Castiel held up the mother of all photographs for his case with his family—a grainy photograph of a familiar car taken from a surveillance camera on a bank across the street from the apartment building. Castiel put the photos back into the file, grinning at his eerily silent family. “I’ve got a task force waiting for me back in Denver, meant just to work on the case of the Winchester brothers, who are now wanted for questioning for two mysterious fires that have caused a casualty of someone in a close relationship to them. So if you want to tell me that this is a waste of my time, or an unhealthy obsession, then I’m going to tell you that now I’m getting paid for it, and I’m doing _fine_.”

The faces that stared back at Castiel were blank, and he had a feeling that it wasn’t going to be that easy to dismiss the matter. He probably should have known better, but he was so giddy with adrenaline that he temporarily didn’t care.

“Cassie, when’s the last time you slept?” Balthazar demanded from his spot at the table, looking horrified.

“Two days? Five? I don’t know.” Castiel rolled his eyes. “That’s not important.”

“That’s pretty damn important,” Balthazar said. “You’re slap-happy. You’re bordering on hysterical.”

“I’ll admit, I’ve been better,” Castiel replied, waving him off, “but I feel fine. Maybe a little hungry. It’s Tuesday?”

“Yes, Castiel.”

“Wow, I’m really hungry then. Everyone want to eat?”

“I’m going to prescribe you some sleeping medication,” his father sighed, “later. For now, we’re going to have a nice and peaceful conversation about family matters, and you can tell me more about this case of yours in therapy.”

Castiel rolled his eyes before taking a seat at the table. “I don’t need therapy,” he said.

The whole table let out a snort of laughter.

Castiel frowned.

*

He managed to get away from the holidays with a prescription for sleeping pills and Adderall, five therapy sessions with dear old dad, and a month’s worth of his mother’s cooking that he only managed to eat half of before it had gone too bad and he had to throw it away. Time passed slowly from there—it was made obvious to him when he returned from Thanksgiving that his Winchester case was on the back-burner, low-priority, and Castiel had gotten to the point that anything was okay to him, as long as he got the chance to work on the case.

It passed by with no developments for months. They lost the trail, and they couldn’t find him; the task force worked on other jobs, sitting back and waiting for anything to come up, anything at all. Castiel watched the time fly past as he attempted to avoid phone calls from his family bothering him to eat, sleep, and do other time-consuming things. He spent most of his time slaving away at his cases, throwing himself fully and completely into them—and spending all the time he didn’t spend on those on the Winchesters.

Nothing happened until he was home in Lawrence again, this time for Anna and Charlie’s birthday. It was at the beginning of March, so most of the family couldn’t make it—Balthazar didn’t have the time or finances to fly home for every one of his many siblings’ birthdays, as much as he wished he could, and Samandriel was off at college mastering in Filmography, working at a hotdog place called the Wienie Hut to help pay for tuition. Anna and Charlie still went to school rather locally, so they made it their mission to celebrate as many of their shared birthdays both together and at home, even if it was usually only accompanied in siblings by Castiel and baby Rachel, who was cooing and giggling from where she sat on his lap, chewing on her own hand.

Castiel couldn’t help but to smile.

They were having a great time—Castiel could finally feel his shoulders relaxing, was suddenly laughing so much that his stomach and cheeks were both hurting from the strain, entirely unused to it as of late. He could literally feel the stress melting off of him, and he wasn’t dizzy or overwhelmed for the first time in what felt like years.

So, of course, that was the moment his phone started ringing.

Everyone groaned.

“Don’t answer it,” Charlie groaned, pouting at him. “It’s my birthday!”

“Yesterday was your birthday, and it’s work. I can’t ignore this.”

“At least put it on speaker,” Anna coaxed him, grinning. “I want to hear what a business-y phone call in the FBI sounds like.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, but he was in a good mood. He hushed everyone, complying with Anna’s orders by putting it on speakerphone, and he answered, “Special Agent Novak.”

“Castiel,” Naomi said, sounding like she was panicking. “I’m sorry, I know you’re home on break, but you’re not going to believe this.”

“I’m listening,” he said.

“A girl was just almost murdered in St. Louis—the cops showed up in time and stopped him, but the guy ran and managed to get away. She knew him—she could identify him. Name, description, car, brother, everything. Castiel, it’s _Dean Winchester_.”

Castiel grabbed the phone off the table, taking it off speakerphone, and demanded sharply, “ _What?_ ”

“Her brother was recently accused for a murder she claims he didn’t commit, so she emailed one of her old friends from Stanford—Sam Winchester. Said he showed up with his brother, Dean, who claimed to be a detective from Bisbee, and they told her they would investigate the murder. Next thing she knew, Dean was the one turning the knife on her.”

It was so uncanny. So outside of the realm of possibilities for a record like Dean’s, a history like Dean’s. Castiel felt like he had been hit in the face with a frying pan.

“I’m getting on a flight now,” she told him, “so I’ll be a while. How quickly can you get there?”

“I’ll take my car, so about four hours,” Castiel said. “I’ll see you there.”

Castiel hung up, and barely managed to stand there in a shocked silence for more than a couple of seconds before he was running upstairs and grabbing his case files and shoving them in his briefcase, running back downstairs and flying out the door while yelling over his shoulder that he would stop back when the case was over, running to his car and getting in the driver’s seat.

A lot could happen in four hours.

Castiel’s car whizzed up in front of the victim’s house—Rebecca Warren—and he slammed on the break among the other police cars still outside of the scene, wondering to himself what the hell they were still doing here. He grabbed his badge from the center consul and flew out of the car, pushing through the crime scene tape and flashing the badge as he forced his way into the house, looking around.

A detective immediately started for him, holding up his hand.

“Who are you?” he demanded, narrowing his eyes. “I didn’t hear that you were coming.”

“Special Agent Castiel Novak,” Castiel introduced himself, setting himself with a challenging stare against the detective. “I’m the lead investigator on a case to find the whereabouts of Dean Winchester—what has happened here tonight?”

The detective paused. “Have you not been briefed?”

“I am aware that Rebecca Warren was attacked by who she identified as Dean Winchester, yes,” he said. “Is there any news on where he could be?”

The detective just stared at him, like he wasn’t sure if he should laugh or just feel sorry for him.

“Agent,” the detective said slowly, “Winchester was killed in self-defense less than an hour ago.”

Castiel stared at him. The words didn’t seem to process at first.

“His body is still on the scene, but we will be taking it to the morgue soon,” the detective explained, gesturing in the direction of a room behind him, but Castiel suddenly couldn’t see. “You can go in to take a look if you want, but I promise that Mr. Winchester is good and dead. We’ll probably bury him tomorrow—doubt anyone is going to show up to claim the body.”

Castiel let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

“I’m willing to cooperate with the FBI,” the detective said when Castiel didn’t respond.

“Good. Yes, yes, good, thank you,” Castiel said, feeling like he wasn’t actually alive—like he was dreaming, having a horrible, horrible dream. “I’m going to go take a quick look, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure thing,” the detective said, stepping back. “Let me know if you have any questions.”

The detective handed him his card, and Castiel just shoved it into his pocket, not thinking to reciprocate the action. He wandered, stumbling into the room the detective had indicated, not even noticing if it was a bedroom or a living room or none of the above. He looked at where there was a couple of forensic guys huddled around what must have been a bullet casing, and they were putting it in an evidence bag. Castiel moved forward, like he was in a terrible dream, and he saw the body.

Castiel held his breath as he walked closer. He was about his height, he realized, maybe just a little taller. Dark brown hair. He was wearing boots, a pair of jeans, and t-shirt and jacket over it. It took Castiel a long time to make his way to Dean’s face, and he felt like he was dying, his chest hurt, and his heart was beating frantically when he forced himself to look at him.

He hated that it was his first thought, but he couldn’t help but to think, _God, he’s gorgeous_.

Castiel looked away, his chest filling with a pain he never would have expected.

He never expected it to end like this. He never, ever wanted it to end like this.

Castiel couldn’t look at him anymore, not here. He turned and he walked away, back to the detective, almost blindly.

He felt like he was drowning.

“Do you know where his brother Sam and his car are?” Castiel asked the detective in a daze. The detective shook his head.

“They were both long gone before I got here. My guess is that the brother got spooked when he heard the gunshot and took off. I think it’s safe to say he’s already dumped the car and ran off to parts unknown.”

It couldn’t be that easy. It just couldn’t be.

Castiel found himself nodding, and he thanked the detective for his cooperation, and he asked what morgue they were taking Dean to and got an address and directions, and he thanked him again before he walked out of the home, walked to his car. He got into the car, and he put on his seatbelt, and he pointed his car in the direction of the morgue, feeling like he was about to vomit at any moment.

He had barely hit the main road before he started screaming.

*

Castiel hated him so much.

He hated him.

He hated himself most of all, because he had still fucking loved him.

He loved this man. He loved a man who was suspected of killing his family, of killing his brother’s girlfriend. Dean Winchester had killed at least one girl, and he attempted to kill another, just recently here in St. Louis. Castiel should have been so angry at this criminal, this horrible person, and he should have wanted to shoot him himself. All Castiel had wanted to get his hands on Dean Winchester to do was forgive him, to prove that he was innocent. Castiel had always loved Dean Winchester.

Which is probably why he sat next to the body in the morgue for three hours, not answering his phone, barely even breathing. Castiel stared at the handsome face of the man he could have grown up loving, either openly or in the secret of his own head and heart. He looked down at the face of the man who had been his best friend, his savior, the only person he had always relied on and vice versa. He thought about Dean as he sat next to his dead body for hours, thinking about how he would have had the time of his life finding out how to prove him not guilty of all of the crimes piled up against him.

He had just wanted to ask Dean Winchester why he had left. And now he was gone.

He had spent the last eleven years desperately looking for Dean Winchester, and he had been so close. If he would have been there four hours earlier, he might have been able to stop him from dying, might have been able to get him in an interrogation room, might have been able to understand the mess of what his life had lately become when it came to him. He would have listened to Dean tell him whatever story he had wanted to tell—and Castiel would have believed him, no matter how ridiculous the story was. Because he loved Dean, and he would believe him no matter what.

And now he would have to walk away from Dean Winchester forever.

The man Castiel had loved his entire life was laying in a morgue, set to be buried in only a couple of hours, and Castiel felt like he was dying right next to him.

Eventually, though, Castiel got to his feet.

Castiel walked out of the morgue without a word.

Castiel got in his car, and he started to drive.

Somewhere between St. Louis and Lawrence, Castiel started to cry.

*

Castiel stumbled out of his car and to the front door of his parents’ house, his eyes long since dried, not even looking irritated anymore. He felt empty, like a good wind would be able to knock him over, as he stood outside of the front door, not knowing whether he would be able to walk inside or not. And then he took a breath, and he squared his shoulders, and Castiel walked into the house, holding his breath.

Of course they were already up and waiting for him. Of course.

He walked into the living room, still feeling like he was in a daze, like he had been blindsided, and he saw his parents and the twins sitting on the couch, all of them holding cups of coffee, turning to look at him as he stumbled in. He looked around at them, startled, blinking like he was trying to adjust to the light.

“Are you okay?” his mother asked him softly.

It felt like a ridiculous question. He would have laughed if he didn’t feel blind.

“Dean’s dead,” was all he said, was all he told them, but for some reason the words hit him harder than sitting beside Dean’s body for hours had.

Castiel barely made it to the bathroom before he vomited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com


	4. Helter Skelter

The first problem came when he stopped taking his medication.

“You’ve stopped, haven’t you?” his father had correctly diagnosed over the phone less than two weeks after the events in St. Louis, and Castiel heard him curse softly under his breath—not angrily, but sadly. “Castiel, you need to quit being so stubborn. Those pills were helping you.”

“I’m fine,” Castiel assured him off-handedly, barely even hearing what his father was saying through a pounding, splitting headache. “Nothing is wrong with me.”

“You aren’t sleeping, and you aren’t eating, and your boss got my number from your uncle yesterday to call me and tell me to talk some sense into you,” his father replied sharply, and Castiel rolled his eyes. “Do you realize that you haven’t left your office building in _four days_?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“I am fully prepared to call the nearest residential psychiatric facility and have them bring you in, Castiel. This is getting serious.”

“Relax, Dad. I’m even going out running—you know, just like you told me to. I’m getting a tan and I’m getting an hour of running in a day. I don’t need the pills to keep me focused.”

“Are you still looking for Sam Winchester?”

“Don’t ask me stupid questions, Dad, it’s unbecoming.”

*

Most of the nights Castiel slept, it was on the small, stiff office sofa in the break room.

“Castiel, this is not a homeless shelter,” Gabriel told him in passing after waking him up with a swift kick to the sofa, and Castiel was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Gabriel leaned against the counter as he waited for his coffee to be ready, crossing his arms stubbornly over his chest. “I know for a fact you have an apartment about ten minutes away from here—why don’t you spend a couple of hours there today, huh? You can get some sleep on a bed for once.”

“I got my obligatory four hours,” Castiel replied passively, sitting up and stretching the muscles in his back. “The apartment is too out of the way. The commute is killer.”

“You don’t even have to leave this street, Castiel.”

“Streetlights are bothersome.”

“Your father keeps calling me,” Gabriel replied. “I’m starting to regret giving him my number.”

“He means well, but he doesn’t quite know how to show _what_ he means,” Castiel relented, pushing himself onto his feet and running a hand through his hair. “Did he say anything meaningful, or did he just started reciting the DSM again?”

“You should call your family more. They worry for you.”

“ _I_ worry for me,” Castiel said with a laugh. “You making two cups of coffee?”

“ _Yes_ , Castiel. It looks like you need it a lot more than me.”

Gabriel poured two mugs with plain black coffee before handing one of the mugs to Castiel. Castiel blew on the top in a weak attempt to cool it slightly before he brought the mug to his lips and downed the contents, wincing against the burn in his mouth and throat when he brought the mug back down onto the counter, swallowing heavily. Gabriel looked at him like he wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or traumatized.

“I think I’m going to head down for a workout,” Castiel shared unnecessarily, stretching his back again. “That runner’s high thing is becoming rather addicting.”

“It’s called endorphins,” Gabriel replied, “and some more of them would probably do you some good.”

“I’ll have my phone if you need me.”

“Leave it in your desk.”

“I’ll have my phone.”

Castiel closed the break room door and headed to his office, grabbing a t-shirt and a pair of FBI shorts before heading down to the training gym, throwing his rumbled dress clothes into a locker before changing into the gym clothes, running a hand over his face as he felt the telltale exhaustion sliding over him. He had changed over the last several months—he wasn’t nearly as relentless as he had been, despite being unable to break his habit of sleepless nights and skipped meals. As Castiel walked into the crisp air still transitioning from winter to spring, the end of March creeping in, he slipped in a pair of wire earphones blaring rock music, and he started to run.

As Castiel ran, his thoughts always cleared significantly, whether from the fresh air Denver was so good for or because he was trying to organize his thoughts, he wasn’t entire sure. It had been almost twenty days since St. Louis—twenty days since he had seen Dean’s body on the floor, since he had realized he would never be able to speak to him, would never be able to know his true story. He had been looking for Sam for these answers, sure, but he wasn’t trying very hard—something in Castiel had slowed down. That primal heartbeat that he had always been able to feel just under his skin had slowed unexpectedly—it was an urge to find Dean, to understand Dean, to wish he could let Dean go but he had to find him. The obsession was like another heart in his chest that was keeping him going, keeping him studying hard and losing sleep and tracking, but now the heartbeat was gone. He knew where Dean was—he had seen where he was buried. He didn’t have to look for him anymore.

His life felt like it was slowing down. He took large paces as he ran, feeling the wind against his face, and he felt like the world was shifting.

He had centered his life on finding the one Winchester brother that had always mattered the most to him, and he had never considered what he would do after he found him. Live on, he supposed. He didn’t know; it had never crossed his mind, not even in all of this time that had passed. But now that he was there—now that he had seen the body for himself—maybe now he could finally let the memory he had of Dean go.

He would never know. Maybe it was about time he came to terms with that.

He would continue to look for Sam Winchester, because he needed some kind of lifeline, at least for a little while. But it wouldn’t bother him if the search didn’t come up with anything for years, he wouldn’t be annoyed if the case dwindled away and out of sight and out of mind, until eventually he almost forgot that he was even looking for the younger Winchester brother. Maybe one day he would find him and ask him some of the questions Castiel had wanted to ask his brother. Maybe they would find him, and Castiel would just let him keep running.

Maybe it didn’t have to control his life anymore.

Not in the same way it had before.

When Castiel got back, he took a quick shower after a sparring session and skipped back to his office, sitting down behind his computer and filling out the report he had been unable to look at for several days. He read through it for grammatical errors before he hit print, and he pulled out his cell phone—he had left it in his locker for his run, a compromise to Gabriel’s request, and he had returned to find a missed call from the younger twin on his phone, and he rolled his eyes as he pressed it to his ear and took a listen.

“What’s up, dildo,” Charlie greeted him brightly from the recording, and Castiel rolled his eyes. “Just called to make sure you were still breathing, since that’s usually in question lately, and to make sure you’ve been eating and sleeping because Dad’s been reading that manual and diagnosing you for the entirety of the dinner we just had. You know, he’s just trying to help, in his own way. Mom told him to cool it down, though, so you’re in the clear for a little while. I’m only home for the weekend, so I know I won’t see you personally, but I wish I could. No matter how much I can’t believe it, I actually miss you, asshole.”

Castiel grinned, picking up the printed papers.

“Okay, so I know this might be too soon, but—so, word on the street is that the old Winchester house is haunted—believe it or not, this is the actual new gossip running around. A new family moved in, and the matriarch is freaked. I’m pretty sure this all started with some teenagers just fucking with people, but now it’s escalating. Figured you might get a bit of a kick out of the superstitious bastards, since you’re a truly terrible person and all that.

“Anyway, I should probably let you go do some federal stuff, but call me, okay? I wouldn’t mind hearing your horrible grainy voice a little more, you know. I gotta love you, brother, no matter how stupid you are. Well, anyway. Later, bitch.”

Castiel smiled and hung up the phone, rolling his eyes—the ghost story thing sounded just like something that he and Dean would have done if they would have been teenagers now, spreading the lore around the neighborhood and watching it turn into a wildfire of overreacting worriers. He reached down into one of the drawers of his desk, searching.

“That’s quite the pensive expression, Castiel.”

Castiel jumped, banging his hand on the top of the drawer. His head snapped up as the familiar voice turned into familiar laughter, and he grinned up at the figure.

“Your knocking is appreciated,” Castiel told his superior sarcastically, but his uncle Michael didn’t take it personally—he threw his head back and laughed, shaking his head as he crossed to sit down on one of the chairs across from Castiel’s desk, crossing his legs and folding his hands over his knees, smirking.

“I do what I can to help,” his father’s older brother replied, smirking. “What are you looking for?”

“My stapler,” Castiel replied as he pulled it out, waving it in the air. “I have to use it to staple together the pages of the Winchester report that I was just about to take to you upstairs. Thank you very much for saving me the trip.”

“I’m psychic,” Michael replied, reaching out and taking the packet when Castiel had finally managed to staple it, weighing the paper in his hands. “You couldn’t have possibly added another twenty pages, could you? There’s just simply not enough detail.”

“Needless to say, I knew a thing or two about my case,” Castiel replied easily, grinning.

Michael pretended like he was going to turn his attention to the packet of papers before he even gave up on pretending and instead just turned to look at Castiel, leaning forward until his elbows were on his knees, his unwavering dark eyes fixed on Castiel, reading him like only a man in the deception side of things could read anyone that walked past him.

“How are you doing, Castiel?”

“Dad called you.”

“Yeah, but I’m not asking the question to immediately turn around and tell on you. I genuinely want to know. This is the case you went into the Bureau for—this case was really personal to you.”

“Not anymore,” Castiel said, smiling stiffly.

“There it is,” Michael said, pointing at his face. “There we are. You’re not as good as hiding your lies as you think you are, nephew of mine.”

“I try,” Castiel sighed before leaning back, shrugging. “It’s bothering me, sure. It meant a lot to me—I wanted to find him, wanted to question him about the fires. But I was a little too late, and there is only so long that I can kick myself in the ass for not being fast enough.”

“Liar,” Michael said.

“I’m fucked up.”

“Sadly, you’re not lying anymore. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Castiel answered honestly. “I’m trying to get over it, trying to shake it off—I keep lying to myself, giving me these pep talks about how I don’t need to worry about the case anymore and how now I’m free—but then I walk back into my office and I see the case and I still can’t believe it, still want to throw myself back into it like he’s still out there. For some reason, it’s not sitting right with me. It’s too simple, too out of character. It feels like there is something more that I can find, more that I can dig up, but—I don’t know what.”

Michael thought about it, looking at Castiel, studying his face.

“It’s okay to have something to obsess about,” Michael said slowly, “as long as it isn’t unhealthy.”

“You agree with me that something is up?”

“I’m saying,” Michael responded patiently, “that there is a line between a healthy obsession and an unhealthy one, and there is a very safe way to walk that line. I know that it won’t be easy for you to just let the Winchester case go like this—I have had cases where, at the end, I was empty for months because there was nothing quite like it that could fill the void. But of course there was, Castiel. You just have to know how, but it’s something you can only learn for yourself.”

Castiel stared at his uncle, not understanding a damn word that was coming out of the man’s mouth.

Michael sighed in annoyance, fully able to see that Castiel wasn’t really getting it, but he just got up onto his feet, and Castiel followed suit, still watching his uncle’s face, trying to see if he understood him correctly. Michael reached over and clapped Castiel on the shoulder.

“I’ll call your father if I get wind that you’re going down hard again, Castiel,” Michael warned him with an easy grin, tucking the report up under his arm. “But I think you will get the hang of it.”

Without another word, his uncle walked out of his office, closing the door behind him, and Castiel took another long moment to just stand there behind his desk, thinking about what had just been said to him.

Castiel slowly picked up his jackets and shrugged them both on, grabbing his briefcase and moving across the room. He closed the door solidly behind him, locking it, before he walked slowly down the hall, down to where Gabriel’s office was. He knocked on the open door to get his attention—Gabriel looked up from what he was doing, offering Castiel a tired smile.

“Your run go well?” Gabriel asked casually.

“Yeah,” Castiel said, shrugging. “It was fine, but I’m a little tired. I was wondering if you would mind me checking out for a couple of days. I think I need to slow down.”

“Go,” Gabriel encouraged, looking relieved. “Get out of here for a little while—come back in when you’re ready. You’ve been out of overtime hours for at least twelve days anyway—I can barely even pay you for being here anymore. Take a few days off and get some sleep, alright?”

“Sounds good,” Castiel said, taking a deep breath. “For the first time in a while, that sounds good. Thanks, Gabriel.”

“No problem, Novak,” his boss said, looking almost disbelieving. “You feeling alright?”

“Just tired,” Castiel said, “and hungry. I’ll see you in a few days, Gabriel.”

Castiel left then, and he barely even paid attention to his surroundings until he was pulling up to his apartment building, parking in the spot designated for him that he was barely ever parked in, and he took a deep breath. He lugged himself up the stairs the three floors it took to get to his apartment, and he shoved two of the wrong keys into the lock before getting it right, twisting it open. The apartment was hot as a sauna—he had forgotten to turn on even air circulation the last time he had left. Castiel loosened his tie and turned the A.C. down to arctic temperatures, wobbling into the kitchen and grabbing a knife and bread and peanut butter—the only contents of the cabinet—and moving to the couch, slumping down on the comfortable material, turning on the television. He let the normalcy of his apartment sink in as he forced himself to eat four peanut butter sandwiches, realizing how hungry he was, before he turned everything off and stumbled into his room, falling face-first onto his bed.

Castiel slept for twenty hours straight. And, because of that, he missed a phone call from Charlie that ended up meaning everything.

*

“Castiel. You’re never going to believe this.

“I was taking a bike ride around the old neighborhood in Lawrence before I left, and I turned onto our street and—and there was a car parked out of the old Winchester house, the car that you showed us in the picture, the one you said John Winchester used to drive.

“And I swear to god, Castiel—two guys were standing next to it talking and—I know I’m going to sound crazy, but—forget it. I’m just going to say it.

“It was Sam Winchester. _And_ Dean. In _Lawrence_.

“I know this sounds crazy, but I _swear_ that it was them—I passed only a couple of inches away from them, and they looked the same as in the pictures you showed us of them. Castiel—oh my god, how is that _possible_?

“How is Dean Winchester _alive_?

“Castiel? Call me back. _Immediately_.”

*

And that was the moment that Castiel understood clearly what Michael had been trying to tell him, and he couldn’t help but to grin, unable to help himself as he laughed, unable to believe it, unable to _believe_ he would have believed it was any other way.

Son of a bitch, he had done it.

Dean Winchester was alive and well.

The game was back on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com
> 
> x Slang


	5. Safe and Sound

Michael was right—the obsession was so much easier when you played the game.

Castiel answered all calls from his family, humored them completely. He let his dad evaluate him when he came in for Samandriel’s birthday over the summer, and his dad admitted that he might have been overreacting, and that Castiel didn’t need the medication. Castiel was eating regularly, sleeping regularly, even exercising—he would go on an hour run in the morning before he worked, only after doing crunches and push-ups on his living room floor. He went from looking like he was gaunt, overworked, to looking like he was going to need a hobby because he had nothing else better to do than chin-ups. Castiel was healthier—he felt better, so much better than he had in a long time. His parents were happy, finally letting him have a little more independence. His siblings were stunned, like they couldn’t believe the change that had come over him, but they didn’t ask. They let him live, and Castiel finally felt human again.

None of them ever stopped by his apartment, so they had no idea.

Where the walls of the apartment were once plain, utilitarian, not personalized in the slightest, they were now absolutely covered—newspaper articles behind the television, spanning half of the wall, and a large map of the United States was up behind the sofa on the opposite wall, with thumbtacks with small notes as dates. Lawrence was the first, dating back to 1994.

His family would have never halted their worry for his mental health if they could have seen how the obsession had instead just grown into a different, more convenient part of his life.

Castiel took the Winchester obsession, and he compartmentalized it.

It was the best fucking advice he had ever gotten in his life.

Charlie had mentioned the Winchester sighting in passing to the family, apparently—she had told them that she had seen two men and a car matching all of the descriptions just like the ones Castiel had once showed them and described to them, but she had told them only after she had already left the voicemail on Castiel’s phone, thankfully enough. Charlie whispered to him once everyone had gone to sleep the next time he had been home that they had urged her to keep quiet, to act as though it hadn’t happened. They told her that it would not be healthy for Castiel if they immersed him into his obsession again so soon after he had finally gotten rid of it. She told him that she would have told him anyway—she thought that they were babying him. He had grinned at her and kissed her on the top of her head, breathing out in relief.

It was always nice to know at least half of your family was on your side.

His mother and father worried for him because they cared for him and wanted the best for him—this, he was aware of. But it was tolling, almost as tolling as the entire obsession had been. Knowing that they were worried, that they were pressing down on him to act a certain way, had been similar to being suffocated, and now he could finally breathe just because he was acting closer to the status quo. Anna was on their parents’ side for a similar reason—Anna was a kind soul, but she could also be stubborn and a little too aggressive, and that had been equally as grueling. Charlie and Balthazar had attempted to shoulder that worry away from him for as long as they could—Samandriel had stood silent on the sidelines for a long time, stepping in to protect Castiel when he needed it before stepping back when he wasn’t needed, and Castiel had appreciated all of the help he could get.

This family felt a little more like they were happy to see him now, and not just happy to see him alive and healthy.

They didn’t need to know. It wasn’t important anymore. It was just something that he couldn’t let go of—something that was always in the back of his mind, but could be overpowered.

Castiel was always looking for the Winchesters. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he was always considering where he might be able to find them next.

He was still at his family’s house for a week break—Rachel’s birthday was three days after Samandriel’s, so the family just took an extended vacation away from worrying about their lives—when Naomi sent him an email, a memo telling him that there had been a search done on the name Dean Winchester a couple of days ago by a deputy up in Minnesota. He stepped out after lunch, rolling his eyes and playing it off as some unimportant matter but one he shouldn’t let be ignored, taking several steps away from the house until he was sitting on the curb on the street, and he called the number that Naomi had sent him.

“Hibbing Police,” the phone was answered by what sounded like a woman around Castiel’s age, the voice a little tired but overall not sounding like she would immediately hang up on a Fed. Castiel smiled even if she couldn’t see him, turning on the charm.

“Hello, yes, may I speak to Deputy Kathleen Hudak, please?” he asked kindly. There was a pause on the other end.

“This is she,” the voice said, sounding a little surprised. “May I ask who is calling?”

“My name is Special Agent Novak from the FBI out of the field office in Denver. I just need to ask you a quick question about something that alerted to my office.”

“Sure, sure. What is it that you need to ask, sir?”

Castiel was relieved she wasn’t being as irritating as some of the other small-town cops he had gotten in contact with other the last several months regarding his case—they had been anything but willing to let Castiel _breathe_ in their direction. His shoulders relaxed.

“Deputy Hudak, it’s come to my attention that you accessed the national databases and searched for a name a couple of days back—the name being Dean Winchester. I was wondering if you would mind telling me why.”

She paused. He could almost feel her shock from the other line, and the corner of his mouth twitched up into a smirk. He might not be as much of a behavior expert as his uncle was, but he was still trained to read for the obvious signs, and he read her silence like it was a bestselling novel.

“Oh, it was an accident, actually,” she explained to him, still sounding startled. “I mistyped a name of a suspect when I put it through the search engine.”

It was hard to confuse someone’s name with that of something as uncommon as _Winchester_. He asked easily, “Have you happened to spot a black 1967 Chevy Impala in your area anytime in the last several days, ma’am?”

“I wouldn’t even begin to know what that kind of car would look like, sir,” she replied with just as much formality, and Castiel could hear how carefully she was walking on eggshells. “But I think it’s safe to say I probably would have noticed—not that many cars that old around here, unless they don’t work anymore.”

“Yeah, there definitely aren’t that many old cars on the road as there used to be,” he said, laughing casually to bring back the unsuspicious air. “I am sorry for all of the strange questions—it’s standard procedure, and I apologize for distracting you from anything you might have been doing.”

“It’s no trouble,” she said. “Although, would you mind me asking why you are looking for this man? I thought that I read on the record that he was killed sometime in St. Louis.”

_Got you._

Too much detail. She knew too much detail from this report—this was a woman who had read the page on Dean Winchester, not just looked at the name and realized her mistake. Castiel pulled the notebook out of his back pocket with one hand and slid the pen out as well, balancing it on his knee and flipping it open, all one-handedly, as he replied, “We’ve got a flag that goes up every time the name is searched in the system, and that doesn’t stop even after they are long dead and buried, ma’am. It’s nothing at all to worry about.”

“Okay,” she said, sounding relieved. “I’m glad to help.”

“Would you mind telling me the approximate date you accessed the name in the system?”

“Oh, um, around June . . . seventh? Maybe. I’m not entirely sure.”

“Thank you so much, Deputy Hudak. Do you have anymore questions for me?”

“No, sir, that’s all.”

“Alright. Well, thank you so much for your cooperation. I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Have a nice day, Agent,” she said before hanging up and Castiel flipped his phone shut, copying down the information in sloppy handwriting on his pocket-sized notebook: _Hibbing, Minnesota – approx. June 7, 2006 – Deputy Kathleen Hudak – Dean through nation search – suspicious._

He tucked the phone and the notebook and pencil into the correct pockets again before heaving himself off of the curb, brushing himself off. He turned around to head back into the house, stopping short.

“Hello there, Cassie,” Balthazar drawled, his eyes narrowed. “Interesting conversation you were having there.”

“Standard procedure,” Castiel tried to write it off, smiling patiently. “Same script, no thought—almost used to it by now.”

“Uh-huh,” Balthazar hummed, obviously not convinced in the slightest. “So, how have you been now that the object of your lifetime obsession is gone for good?”

“I’ve been doing fine, as you and the rest of the family have already judged to be true,” Castiel replied to his brother almost too flippantly, spreading his arms. “I’m probably more healthy than you, boozehound.”

Balth’s eyes were steady as he said, “Those weren’t the kind of questions I imagine the Bureau wrote for you to ask, Cassie. Those sounded a little too much like you.”

“So I personalize it—keeps it interesting.”

“Don’t lie to me, Cassie, we both know that I can tell.” Balthazar took a step closer before he murmured, “I don’t understand why you are still wasting your time looking for him when you so clearly saw that he is dead.”

“I saw a man dead that was _believed_ to be Dean Winchester,” Castiel corrected him. “The only person there to confirm his name was Rebecca Warren, who had only met him about a day ago. Sam could have brought anyone around and introduced him as his brother. A picture of Dean hasn’t been found in years, and I am not investigating it. I am checking up on it when something comes across my desk, which is my job to do when I am in possession of a case.”

“I thought you already turned in your report.”

“The report said just what I told you now. I made it no secret that the only person around to identify Dean Winchester’s body was not only a victim of a traumatic crime, but also had no previous knowledge of his existence before she met him only hours before. This is my job, Balthazar—I consider any alternative possibility, and it _could_ be. So I have an alert on if his name is searched in the system, and I let that tell me all that I need to know. Rest assured in your knowledge that my case isn’t going far.”

Balthazar watched him, waiting for him to breakdown. And, if it had been several months before Michael’s advice, Castiel would have barely been above a melted case study on the ground, freaking out over the possibility of him being wrong. But he was prioritizing—he was standing strong, casual, his shoulders hunched and his thumbs tucked into his belt loops, smiling without hysteria. Balth licked his lips, considering Castiel’s pose.

“Just be safe, alright?” Balthazar finally asked him, letting out a long breath of air. “I don’t want to see you get back into the funk you were in before—that really scared us, Cassie. Just—don’t do that again.”

“I won’t,” Castiel reassured him.

Balthazar clapped him on the shoulder before steering him inside, speaking loudly and openly about how he was dying to get his little brother drunk and see what kind of secrets he would have to tell, and Castiel laughed a humored him with a few beers, and the rest of the weekend passed in the same blur.

*

Castiel was the last to leave his parents’ house when the birthday celebrations had been over. He didn’t tell anyone that it was because he didn’t want his spying siblings to notice he drove around the block once before parking outside of the old Winchester house, throwing his car back in park and looking up at it, his hands clutching the steering wheel.

The house had been built back up to look exactly the same as it had before the fire, the same color and everything—it all looked the same. All except for the tree—the tree’s limbs were still awkwardly curled away from the house, like it was leaning away from the residual heat.

Castiel hadn’t stayed long.

The single mother of two in the Winchester home didn’t have much time on her hands, but she was kind enough to invite Castiel in, despite him not flashing his badge or saying anything other than how he wanted to ask her about a recent occurrence. He declined her invitation, and asked her only if she had been visited by the previous family to live in this home—if she had met two young men named Sam and Dean Winchester.

She had said yes, had said that they were pleasant boys, and she told Castiel about how she had found a box of their family’s memorabilia in the basement and she had given it to them when they had happened to stop by. There was a secret in her eyes, but Castiel hadn’t dared ask.

He asked her to describe the brothers, and she did before asking him why. He scribed down how she had described Dean—six foot or six foot one, about Castiel’s build, brown hair, green eyes, freckles—and told her that he and the Winchester brothers were once friends, before the accident, and how he was trying to find them. Her face had collapsed in pity, and she had told him that she didn’t know where they were, that secret still in her eyes, and she had told him to have a nice day before closing the door. Castiel had glanced at the house for one more long moment before getting in the car and heading back to Denver, turning over the description in his mind again and again.

He tried not to think about how she was describing the corpse he had seen in St. Louis. He tried not to think about how she had met Dean Winchester weeks after he had become a corpse.

Castiel pinned the new description on his wall next to Sam’s picture from Stanford, and Castiel put a colored pin and his description of the sighting firmly over the city of Hibbing, Minnesota.

Castiel spent a long time that night looking at the map.

*

Summer was almost gone by the time Castiel got a phone call from a police detective in New Paltz, New York, who told him that he spotted an Impala that matched the Bureau’s description.

Before Dean had supposedly been shot down in St. Louis, Castiel had sent out a national bulletin to all the police offices he could find in the United States saying to look out for the brothers and the Impala, saying that they were wanted for FBI questioning. Castiel hadn’t been able to receive any calls in time before the St. Louis incident, and he hadn’t gotten any calls afterward.

Until New Paltz.

“Is this guy dangerous?” the detective asked Castiel cautiously. “I haven’t seen it around today, but a couple of days ago it was parked outside of a friend of mine’s place. I can’t even believe I remembered the bulletin, to be honest—it’s just that it’s a memorable car.”

“That it is,” Castiel said, writing notes quickly in his notebook. “No, sir—these men aren’t dangerous, that we know of. We just have a couple of questions to ask of them. Can you tell me the name and phone number of the residence you found the car outside of?”

“It’s an auction house, actually.”

Castiel was on the phone with the auction house less than ten minutes later.

“Sarah Blake,” the woman on the phone told Castiel cautiously. “My father owns the auction house, and I work here. Are you looking for someone?”

“Not necessarily—my name is Special Agent Novak, and I’m with the FBI. I only have a few questions I was wondering if you could try to answer for me.”

“Oh, um, sure. Is there, um, any problem?”

“No, no, just a few questions on a report that fell across my desk, nothing too terrible,” Castiel assured her, leaning back in his desk chair, crossing his ankles on top of his desk. “I was just wondering if your auction house deals with antique cars.”

“No, sir.”

“A 1967 Chevy Impala was seen parked outside by law enforcement a few days ago—would you happen to know the men who own the car?”

“Who, _Sam_?” Sarah demanded, and Castiel felt a rush almost as good as when he was running.

“You’ve spoken with Sam Winchester?” Castiel asked her, almost shocked. She paused.

“Yeah, a couple of times, I guess,” she said. “Is he in trouble?”

“No—we’re just looking for him to answer a few questions about an accident that happened over on the west coast, as he left no contact information. Was Sam alone when you encountered him?”

“No,” she said cautiously, now walking on eggshells—she was protecting him. That’s interesting. “No, actually, he was here with his older brother Dean.”

Castiel read out Dean’s description. Sarah was sounding more and more confused.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Sarah identified Dean, sounding confused. “Is this something important?”

“Not necessarily—I just need you to answer another couple of questions and then you are free to go, Miss Blake. Are Sam and Dean still in New Paltz?”

“No—they left a few days ago.”

“Do you know where they were heading?”

“No idea. They—they didn’t mention it, if they even knew themselves. Sam said he was on some kind of road trip with his brother. I’m sorry, but are they in trouble? Because they are two of the nicest guys I’ve met in a long time, and I refuse to believe that they did something terrible.”

“I’m attempting to ignore how worried you are as to their guilt, Miss Blake, for the benefit of the doubt for the brothers,” Castiel told her slowly, cautiously, and he felt her take a deep breath. “One more question—did they leave any way to communicate them behind, either a phone number or an address?”

“No. No, they didn’t.”

She sounded sad. Castiel wanted to wonder why, but knew it definitely wasn’t in his job description to play therapist.

“Thank you so much, Miss Blake. And don’t worry—Sam and Dean aren’t in trouble.”

“Yet,” she replied stormily. “Right?”

“I hope not,” he said softly, almost a little sadly, and he added, “Have a nice day, Sarah.”

He hung up the phone, and made a mental note to add it to his pin board later, sitting back in his chair and tapping his fingers on his stomach, staring up at the ceiling.

He figured that it might be about time to send out a bulletin about the Impala again—just in case.

*

The bulletin was his best and worst idea. The best, because he got a notification almost two weeks later, but the worst was the added questions and confusion that it added to the entire case, sending it all into a tailspin.

It was barely the beginning of September when he got a call from South Dakota, telling him that an old Impala had been involved in a terrible collision out on the highway in the middle of nowhere, t-boned by a truck driver who had unexplainably blacked out. They explained that they were filling out reports on the accident when they discovered the bulletin, and they called as soon as they could.

The accident was about a week ago. Castiel immediately got permission to head to the hospital, and he got in his car and took off like a bat out of hell.

It was a hunch, and a long-shot. What were the chances that it was the Winchester brothers in the car crash, when it could have been anyone else in the world? But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had it this time—like he had struck gold. His hands shook the entire drive there. He didn’t even bother stopping at the police station to check in beforehand; he pulled to a shuttering stop in front of the hospital, racing inside.

He found a nurse who worked on the floor who had dealt with the accident. She told Castiel that the truck driver had been unharmed, but the three in the car had been airlifted to the hospital from the scene. She explained that, of the three, two of them were checked into the hospital.

“The driver wasn’t in bad shape,” she explained to him. “He was the only one conscious in the whole car when the medics got there. The guy in the passenger seat wasn’t terribly off, but they checked him in for a broken arm and a concussion. The guy in the backseat though . . .” She shook her head. “Poor guy. He was messed up bad. He was put in critical condition, was in a coma for about a day. Flat-lined at least once.”

“Was one of the men in the car this man?” Castiel asked her, showing her the picture of Sam Winchester. Her eyes widened.

“Yeah—yeah, he was the driver,” she told him, invigorated. “Yeah, I remember him—thought he was cute. The poor guy was distraught—his brother was the one in the coma. He was hovering at his bedside most of the time.”

“His brother?” Castiel demanded, his skin going cold. “You’re sure they were brothers?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Before we let the guy off without checking him in, he was sitting in his bed screaming to know about if his brother was okay. He looked freaked. And his face when his brother flat-lined . . .”

She shook her head, pity in her expression. Castiel felt sick.

“But his brother improved?”

“Yes, actually. It was a damn miracle—no one expected him to recover, but he just suddenly woke up, suddenly started improving all around. Guess he didn’t want his brother worrying about him or something.”

“Did the brother already check out of the hospital?” Castiel demanded.

“Yeah—a few days ago. They both took off not long after their father died.”

Castiel felt his stomach plummet. He felt cold. He couldn’t breathe.

“What?” he hissed.

She blinked, confused.

The next thing Castiel knew, he was in the morgue.

“They checked out the body before I could do much of anything,” the pathologist explained to him, shrugging. “They identified him as their father, though, which made sense—he looked like them, especially the shorter one. It’s a shame, really—doctors say it was a heart attack, completely unexpected. He had just been checked out that morning, and his vitals read fine.”

“Could you describe him for me, please?” Castiel asked. The pathologist grinned.

“Got better than that—took a picture,” he told Castiel pleasantly, crossing to his desk. “I usually take a picture of the bodies before anything—helps with the before and after, in case I find any bruising or anything. Let’s see . . .”

Castiel couldn’t hear his thoughts over the sound of his own heart rapidly beating as the pathologist skimmed through the photograph roll, searching for the right picture. Castiel felt like he was about to burst into flame—he couldn’t believe that this was happening, actually happening. This was nothing more than dumb luck that he came to investigate this—this was nothing more than a coincidence—and he was might be about to see something that changed everything.

“Right—here he is,” the pathologist said, passing over the camera to Castiel.

Castiel stared at the photo.

“No fucking way,” he muttered, unable to believe it.

“You alright?” the pathologist asked, but Castiel couldn’t even hear him.

Castiel wasn’t alright—because he recognized him. He took one look at the photo and there was no doubt in his mind, not even one single bit. He looked almost the same.

Castiel stared down at the picture of John Winchester, a man who should have been dead about eleven years ago, and he wanted to start screaming.

He fucking _knew_ it.

“I’m going to need a copy of this,” Castiel told the pathologist, “and any information you can give me about his sons. _Quickly_.”

*

The police pointed him in the direction of the junkyard where they had been keeping the Impala, but Castiel didn’t have to cross further than the front gate to be told that the car had already been taken away, towed by some guy who was rather local. Castiel asked them if they recognized him or his name, and they told him that they didn’t.

But one told him that he think he remembered the last name— _Singer_.

And it was a start.

“Looked like he knew the guy who wanted the car to be towed, like personally,” one of the men had said. “Must have—no one would have bothered to tow it if it wasn’t personal. That car was a fucking pretzel.”

Castiel thanked them, and he got back in the car, immediately pointing it in the direction of Denver—to his wall of Winchesters, to where all of his information was, now equipped with a picture of John Winchester to prove that not only was Sam not in the fire, but John . . .

Castiel pressed on the gas, nearly laughing. The rush was amazing.

He had no idea how quickly the Winchester case was going to move from that point. If he had, he definitely would have laughed.

He was in for one hell of a ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com


	6. The Man Who Never Lied

It got to the point he could no longer compartmentalize it. His obsession leaked back into his life, fueled by the new fire—John Winchester alive until _one month ago_ —and his family began to take notice. Really, it was entirely his fault as to why their panic began again. He made a resound mistake—he didn’t try to pretend.

“Happy almost-birthday, baby brother!” Balthazar boomed through the phone one night, laughing when Castiel groaned against the sudden loud voice in the speakers. “Mom and Dad wanted me to ask when you’re going to be getting home—I got here about two hours ago, and I think they’re hoping they won’t be alone with me all that long.”

“What day is it again?” Castiel asked.

It was his first mistake.

Balthazar was quiet for a long moment, and Castiel in hindsight could almost imagine his horrified expression. He heard his mother’s voice asking what was wrong right before Balthazar calmly managed, “It’s _Wednesday_ , Castiel. Wednesday October eighteenth. Your birthday is on Friday.”

“Right,” Castiel said almost dismissively, his eyes on the map on his living room wall—he had added red string that traces all of the Winchester sightings in order, and he was tracing that path, wondering what the connection was again, wondering if it made sense again. It was how he spent most of his nights, and even his days—they were beginning to run together sometimes. Gabriel hadn’t chided him for not appearing in the office enough—Castiel was solving the cases that touched his desk, and he was turning them in, and Castiel thinks it was to the point that Gabriel didn’t care where he was as long as his productivity stayed the same. Castiel flipped between his apartment and his office, not noticing. He just kept working forward, working his cases, and nothing felt wrong.

Balthazar boomed, “Are you _listening_ to me, Castiel?”

“Sorry, working on a case,” he mumbled, tearing his eyes away from the wall sadly to stare down at the floor, blinking repeatedly until his mind cleared slightly. “You were saying?”

“I was asking you if you had eaten anything today.”

“Yes.”

“What day is it?”

“Monday.”

“It’s _Wednesday,_ Castiel _._ God _damn_ it.”

“I’m leaving for Lawrence in the morning,” Castiel enlightened his brother, forcing back a yawn. “I’ll be home before noon, alright?”

“Are you doing alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“When’s the last time you were home?”

“I’m home now.”

“Working at home?”

“Usually, yes, why?”

“Have you been going running?”

“Yes, Balthazar. Sometimes. What is the point to this?”

“Nothing, Castiel,” Balthazar replied stormily, breathing out angrily through his teeth. “Look, I don’t want to have this discussion now. We’ll talk about this tomorrow when you get here, alright? Now get some sleep, eat something for Christ’s sake, and we’ll talk in the morning.”

“Sure,” Castiel said, not listening, and hung up the phone.

It only got worse after he hung up. He hadn’t been able to focus back on the wall of Winchesters after the phone call with Balthazar, in which he had realized all of the mistakes he had made, so he had just left a message on his boss’s phone and packed up his car and took off right then and there. He showed up at his parent’s house at about three in the morning, letting himself in with the spare key quietly, hoping not to wake anyone, and he crept into the house, holding his breath.

Nothing moved, and he breathed out in relief before heading to the sofa in the living room, getting comfortable as he pulled out a case file he brought on the Winchesters—a series of newspaper he was able to find from all over the country reporting two men in an old car impersonating members of law enforcement—and he spread it out over the coffee table, leaning forward until his arms were resting on his knees, pushing back another yawn.

He wasn’t sure what happened between then and when he woke up on the couch to the sound of voices in the other room, but he knew that his case file was gone and that his neck had a crick in it that made it feel like he had been stabbed with an elephant tranquilizer when he tried to look around.

Castiel moaned as he pushed himself onto his feet, brushing off his clothes and yawning as he made his way into the kitchen, the wonderful aroma of percolating coffee pushing him forward. His parents looked up when he stumbled into the kitchen, both already dressed for the day. His brother was sitting at the kitchen table, the majority of his upper body sprawled on it face down, and Rachel was tottering around the kitchen, tottering toward him with a big smile.

“Good morning, Castiel,” his mother said, eyes narrowing. “You know, when you said you would be here before noon, we didn’t expect you to come in before sunrise.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he explained to them, reaching down and scooping up his littlest sister, who shrieked happily when he held her up to eye level, grinning at her. “And how are you, Princess Rachel?”

She giggled and wiggled her feet. He smiled as he kissed her forehead, letting her back down onto her feet and watching her scuttle away. He leaned against the counter, suddenly aware that both of his parents were watching him carefully, and that Balthazar still hadn’t look up at him.

“How did you sleep?” his father asked. “I tried to wake you up to get you into a bed, but you just shook me off.”

“You have a good taste in comfortable couches, what can I say,” he replied to his parents casually, shrugging. “I don’t even remember falling asleep.”

“So what case were you working on, Castiel?” Balthazar demanded, his voice muffled by the table, but it was easy to hear his tone of anger. “Something exhausting, I gather.”

“Yeah, I guess you could say it’s a little peculiar.”

Balthazar sat up, his eyes angry. He wordlessly held up the folder that had been missing from the coffee table when Castiel had woken up, his hands clutching it tightly. Castiel smiled sheepishly.

“Oh, so you know just how peculiar, then,” Castiel said. “Saves me an explanation.”

“Men Impersonate Bureau Investigators In Bizarre Case,” Balthazar recited without having to look through the articles, and Castiel knew by just that he was in a lot of trouble. “Pair of Men Impersonate Marshals in Search. FBI – No Comment On Fake Investigators. Fake Investigators Drive Away in Old Chevy.”

“That one’s my favorite,” Castiel commented sardonically.

“You’re looking for them again,” Balthazar stated—not accused, like Castiel would have expected. But he just stated it, like an exhausted fact. That actually kind of stung.

“I’m only three days behind them,” Castiel informed the observing kitchen, thanking his mother softly when she handed him a black coffee and downing half the cup in one sip. “They pop in and out. This just happens to be one of the times that they’re in, so I’ve been busier than usual.”

“You’re acting oddly about it all again,” his brother pointed out softly. “I warned you about this, Castiel.”

“There’s been surprising information in the Winchester case that has caused for a complete reevaluation of the majority of their past endeavors,” Castiel explained excitedly after finishing the rest of the coffee. His mother eyed the mug warily. “Just wait—I’ll show you.”

Balthazar sighed sadly as Castiel flew from the room, sidestepping a waddling Rachel to grab the file out of his briefcase, grinning when he wandered back into the kitchen. His mother and father were watching him sadly, like they were watching him shatter right before their eyes and they couldn’t do anything to put him back together again.

“There was a car accident in South Dakota a little bit back,” Castiel explained to them. “It involved an old Impala, so I checked it out basically because I had nothing else to do. And it was them—the Winchesters. There were three men in the car during the collision—Sam, who was driving.” Castiel set Sam’s picture on the kitchen table. “Dean, who was in the backseat. And an unknown man was in the passenger seat. Dean was the worst off—he was in a coma before he recovered miraculously, and he and Sam managed to walk away from the hospital only a few days after being admitted. But the passenger—he was admitted for a concussion and a broken arm. And then, twenty minutes after Dean wakes up from his coma, he has a heart attack in an empty hospital room and dies. You’re not going to believe this.” Castiel held up the picture, grinning. “You recognize him, don’t you?”

“John Winchester?” his mother hissed, going pale. “That’s impossible.”

“It’s entirely possible,” Castiel said, smiling excitedly. “The only body that was identified in the fire was Mary Winchester—evidence is beginning to show that the other two figures may have been those that started the fire, because it is obvious now that John took his car and his sons and took off to parts unknown. John Winchester couldn’t have died twelve years ago because he just died a couple of months ago of a heart attack in South Dakota.”

Balthazar looked horrified. “And the brothers just took off without burying him?”

“No—no, this is a picture the medical examiner took of the body, but he didn’t get to do anything before two men who he claimed where John’s sons checked the body out. I’ve been trying to figure out where they buried their father, as well as trying to locate the salvage yard they took the battered Impala to, but I’ve had no luck on finding either of them. The only sign I currently have of their existence are those strange newspaper articles, and there aren’t many of them.”

Castiel’s mother just rubbed her eyes, looking tired all of a sudden. His father stirred his coffee slowly, looking like he was thinking.

“Son, have you ever considered that you obsession may have given way into some form of paranoia?” his father asked him.

“Chuck,” his mother hissed, turning to level a glare at her husband. “That’s rude.”

“Becky, jeez, it’s just a question,” he muttered, wincing. “Sorry, Castiel—but how exactly do you feel you would answer that last question?”

“I’m not paranoid, Dad,” Castiel sighed. “This is my job, believe it or not. I find small things, and I build a bigger picture.”

“Just don’t get too wrapped up in it, alright, sweetheart?” his mother asked him cautiously, leaning down to pick up Rachel and put her at a seat at the table with buttered toast on a plate in front of her. “We only worry for you when there’s something to worry about.”

“I know,” he replied, and then spread his arms out. “I’m fine, guys. You don’t need to worry.”

Balthazar snorted. “You just drank a cup of black coffee in less than thirty seconds,” his older brother pointed out, rolling his eyes. “There’s nothing normal about you, Cassie.”

And his mistakes were forgiven—for now.

*

It didn’t last long.

The morning after his birthday, after he steeled himself through his normal gifts of socks and true crime novels, he sat in the front room with Balthazar and Charlie, catching up on their current lives. Anna had stopped in for his dinner last night and kissed him on the cheek before she had to leave immediately afterward, having a project due at school that she needed to get back to as soon as possible. Charlie just didn’t care enough about school to care if she had a paper due in two days, so she stayed, and Balthazar didn’t leave until the next day.

Balthazar told them about how much he hated his engineering job. “They’re constantly shipping me all over the bloody place,” he complained, groaning, and Castiel was pleased to hear that irritating accent was beginning to Americanize again. “Now they’ve got me in Milwaukee for the next couple of years—I don’t think I can use words in any language to explain to you how much I fucking hate Wisconsin.”

“It’s not that terrible,” Castiel chuckled, rolling his eyes. Balthazar gave him a flat look.

“Oh, yes, it is,” Balth insisted. “When you live there full time, it’s terrible. It’s cold all the damn time. Summer is a couple months of beautiful weather, and then it snows from September to June. It’s ridiculous.”

“Well, it gives you an excuse to cover up those hideous v-necks,” Charlie pointed out, shuddering. “I didn’t even know they made v-necks that v-ed as low as some of your shirts. It’s terrifying.”

“I’ll have you know that the ladies think that they fit my personality,” Balth replied to his little sister curtly, turning his nose up.

“Oh, they do—which says something about your personality.”

He shoved her into the arm of the couch, making her laugh, as he muttered how he knew all along that adopting girls was the worst idea to come out of this family. Castiel watched them banter from the recliner, grinning to himself as he took sips from his glass of orange juice.

Castiel’s phone buzzed and he sighed to himself before pulling it out, checking the email that he had just received. He read the first line—and froze.

Before he had the time to really think about it, he was already calling the FBI operator and telling them to patch him through to the Baltimore Police Department, to Detective Diana Ballard, _now_.

“Castiel?” Charlie asked, sounding surprised, her eyes wide as she stared at him. “What’s going on?”

“The usual suspects,” he muttered before there was finally the sound of rustling from where an officer had put him on hold, and he heard soft murmuring on the other end of the line.

“This is Detective Ballard,” she answered.

“Detective Ballard, I’m Special Agent Castiel Novak of the FBI field office in Denver. It’s come to my attention that you have accessed the records and requested an arrest warrant for a Sam and Dean Winchester.”

“Yes,” she said, surprised. “We just brought them in a couple of hours ago—what’s this about?”

“You have them in custody right now?” Castiel demanded, getting quickly to his feet. “And you suspect them of a murder?”

“Two,” she said slowly. “They were attempting to skip town when we managed to catch onto them, and we got to them in time—what is this about?”

“I am heading to Baltimore as soon as I can in order to work the case,” Castiel informed her. “The FBI have been keeping an eye on the Winchesters, and any case of theirs falls under our jurisdiction. I would appreciate your cooperation in this matter.”

She hesitated before sighing, sounding a little annoyed by his passively authoritative manner when she replied, “Of course, Agent. We’d be happy to have you.”

“Wonderful,” he said. “Do me a favor and keep an eye on those two—they tend to slip out of law enforcement’s hands more than you would think possible. They’re tricky ones, and I want to talk to them.”

“Sure thing,” she said slowly, drawing out the words. “I’ll be anxiously awaiting your arrival.”

“Thank you, Detective Ballard,” he replied before hanging up the phone, grabbing his briefcase which still sat underneath of the coffee table, and he was already to the front entryway after ignoring his siblings’ questions, yelling, “Mom, Dad, I’ve got to get to Maryland! I’ll be back as soon as possible!”

“What’s going on?” Balthazar yelled as Castiel dashed out of the front door, fumbling with his car keys. “Castiel, what’s going on?”

“The Winchesters have been arrested for two murders in Baltimore,” Castiel yelled, yanking the door open. “I’ll call when I can!”

And then he was peeling out of the parking lot, watching his stunned siblings standing on the top porch step, looking lost as they watched his car take off down the street and round the corner, sending him out of sight.

*

“I hate to say I told you so,” Castiel sighed heavily, his head in his hands. “The Winchesters are slippery, tricky. You weren’t the first to have possession of them and then lose them.”

Detective Diana Ballard was a blonde woman about forty who looked extremely tired and extremely annoyed, but Castiel was pretty sure that was just the way her face looked. She sat behind her desk in the main room of the Baltimore police station, fiddling with her fingers and biting her lip like she was forcing herself to bite back a few choice words. She looked between Castiel and Naomi, who had joined Castiel only moments ago, her flight taking a little longer, but it hadn’t ended up mattering anyway.

The Winchester escaped, car and all, some two hours before Castiel touched down in Maryland. Sam Winchester had managed to escape from the police station through the window in some sort of mysterious fashion, and Dean had escaped while he was being transported to St. Louis, where apparently a detective had taken his own liberty to do so, resulting in him getting shot and killed by the eldest Winchester during his escape. Diana Ballard was rather quiet about the scene, although she had been the one to discover it. She seemed as thought she had said what she had wanted to say, and now it was time for everyone to leave her alone.

But Castiel was frustrated. He had spent so much time chasing the Winchester’s shadow, so much time trying to track them down but being one step behind, and he found himself in the same position again. The thought was degrading, and it frankly didn’t put him in the best of moods.

“Detective Ballard, you’ve been as cooperative as possible,” Castiel said a little sarcastically, “and I appreciate you filling me in on what you can. So I hope you don’t find it too abusive to my own power if I ask for you to surrender the evidence in your case against the Winchester brothers for me to use in my own investigation, as they have more than likely crossed state lines and it is already a federal matter.”

She took a deep breath and then nodded, gesturing dismissively. “I don’t mind,” she muttered. “Take the case. I already did my job—I’ll contact you if I need any information for when I finish my report.”

“Perfect, thank you,” Castiel said, looking to the left. “Naomi?”

“Got it,” she told him, rolling her eyes. “One day you’ll owe me, Castiel.”

“Today is not that day,” he replied, rolling his eyes as she walked away. Detective Ballard eyed the two of them, frowning.

“Don’t do it,” she said before Castiel could open his mouth and ask another question, her eyes tired. “Just, don’t do it.”

“What?” he asked, confused. “Don’t do what?”

“I see the way she looks at you, even if it’s not reciprocated,” Ballard murmured, “and . . . don’t. It’s not worth it. It never will be.”

Castiel felt like he had been slapped, but he caught on quick. He leaned forward, looking her in the eye. “Is that what happened with you and Detective Sheridan?”

“Something like that,” she replied. “Just trust me when I say it’s never going to end well.”

Castiel sat back, a little surprised—he barely spoke to Naomi, and was surprised that a third party had identified it as what looked to be a budding office romance. He sardonically wondered what Naomi’s reaction would be to hearing about Castiel’s persistent crush on Dean Winchester and the memory of what he used to be.

“I would never consider it,” Castiel told her slowly, “because it always hurts. No matter who you care about, it _always_ hurts. And, sometimes, in some places, you can’t have that hurt.”

Detective Ballard looked at him sadly. “I’m sorry,” she said, “for whoever you lost.”

He smiled without teeth. Dean Winchester was always much more lost than he was ever found.

“It was nice talking to you, Detective Ballard,” Castiel said as he raised himself slowly from his seat before her desk, looking her in the eye, “and I am sorry for your loss.”

She smiled a twisted smile and ducked her head, and Castiel took that moment to walk to the front of the police station, heads turning to watch the Fed and whispered about him as he passed, rolling his eyes as he passed into the front room and found Naomi holding a box filled with the evidence that the police station was willing to allow them to take, evidence that only directly related to the Winchesters.

“Well, that was a bust,” she muttered as they headed to the rental, dumping the box in the backseat and climbing into the passenger seat. “We always miss them, don’t we? No matter how quickly we hear about them, we always miss them.”

“The Winchesters have mastered this disappearing act,” Castiel agreed, pulling out of the parking lot, his eyes tracing the streets as if he expected to see a familiar Chevy Impala. He let out a long breath as they started their way back to the airport, back onto the plane and back to the office, turning to grin at her. “But they might have left something behind this time. It was sloppy.”

“I just don’t understand how Dean managed to survive St. Louis,” she explained, shaking her head. “You saw the body. It makes no sense.”

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Castiel admitted, frowning. “I’m just taking it one day at a time, and taking on what I know—Dean Winchester is alive and running around the country with his brother and getting accused of murders and disappearances, and that’s all I need to know.”

They were quiet for the rest of the drive, and spoke only a few times about the case on the plane before it touched down outside of Lawrence, in a small airport for private and corporate use called Lawrence Municipal, and Naomi relinquished all of the evidence over to him, smiling at him and saying that she’s sure he’ll be able to find more in it than she will. She stayed on the plane so it could take her back to Denver as Castiel hopped into his car, the evidence box in his passenger seat, and he let out a deep breath.

It was late into the night of the day he had left, maybe even early morning into the next day, when he walked through the door to the house but, like they always were, his family was waiting for him. They asked him what happened and he explained how the Winchesters had managed to evade law enforcement once again and they lost him. “What else is new,” Castiel snorted, rolling his eyes. “I swear, it’s like it’s their personal mission to make sure I have more work to do than necessary. I could have had them in St. Louis, maybe even Palo Alto if everyone was just a minute quicker.”

“So what’s that box?” Balth asked, glancing at it nervously like some wild animal was alive and prowling inside of it. Castiel set it down carefully on the coffee table, digging for something specific.

“It’s all of the evidence they had on the Winchesters personally,” Castiel explained, shifting things, peering inside. “It’s a lot of pictures, some stuff from their pockets—a lighter, pens, stupid shit. My bet is that all of the good stuff was in the car, but the cops didn’t get a look before the Winchesters magically were able to retrieve it. But Baltimore did get something that does me some good.”

Castiel held up a disk and said, “They got Dean Winchester on video.”

His parents, Charlie, and Balthazar would have denied it later, but they watched Castiel put the disk into the DVD player under the television, none of them moving as Castiel hooked it all up and moved back to his seat, hitting for it to play. They all watched like it was some type of movie when the video began, shaky video of what seemed like a cop setting it up. A man was standing in the doorway—Sheridan, the detective who died at Dean’s hand later that day—and Dean himself was sitting at the table, the frame capturing his face as it moved closer, and Dean wagged his eyebrows at the camera, smirking.

Castiel’s stomach flipped. It was the same man from St. Louis—absolutely everything was the same. Dean was just as attractive as he remembered him as being, and just as charming as he had been when they were teenagers, probably even more now with practice. Dean looked up when the sound of the door opening filled the room.

“Counselor, your boy has decided to confess,” Castiel assumed it was Sheridan spoke—the arrogant voice fit the posture.

“Mr. Winchester, I’d advise against that strongly,” the counselor cautioned Dean, sounding exhausted, like they had already been over this before. Dean barely even acknowledged them, his attention turned back to the camera, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Talk directly into the camera, first stating your name for the record,” Sheridan instructed him.

Dean cleared his throat and leaned forward, looking right into the camera—and, because of his movement, he was now looking directly at Castiel, right in the eye.

“My name is Dean Winchester,” he spoke in a deep voice, and Castiel felt his skin break out in goose bumps. He hated himself for it. Dean’s tone turned sarcastic fast as he continued, “I’m an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach, and frisky women. And I did not kill anyone. But I know who did. Or, rather, what did. Of course, I can’t be for sure, because our investigation was interrupted. But our working theory was that we’re looking for some kind of vengeful spirit.”

He said it with such a straight face, such a knowing look, that Castiel flinched. Balthazar whispered, “Bloody hell.”

Ballard’s voice asked from behind the camera, “Excuse me?”

“You know, Casper the bloodthirsty ghost?” Dean replied, his grin growing before he added, “Tony Giles saw it. I’ll bet you cash money Karen did too. But, see, the interesting thing is the word it leaves behind. For some reason, it’s trying to tell us something—but communicating across the veil, it ain’t easy. You know, sometimes the spirits, they, they get things jumbled. You remember “REDRUM”? Same concept. You know, it’s, uh, maybe word fragments—other times, anagrams. See, at first we thought this was a name, Dana Shulps.” Dean tapped his finger, assumedly pointing at something he had written on the paper that the camera couldn’t pick up on. “But now we think it’s a street. Ashland. Whatever’s going on, I’ll bet you it started there.”

Dean leaned back and spread his hands with a smile. He reminded Castiel of a performer, and he had just performed his act perfectly. And the act was insanity.

“You arrogant bastard,” Sheridan growled. “Tony and Karen were good people, and you’re making jokes.”

“I’m not joking, Ponch,” Dean replied easily.

“You murdered them in cold blood just like that girl in St. Louis.”

Castiel leaned forward a little bit, eager.

Dean looked back at the camera. “Oh, yeah, that wasn’t me either. That was a shape-shifter creature that only looked at me.”

Dean gave the camera a big smile, a heart-stopping smile, and no one involved seemed to see Sheridan coming, because he suddenly darted forward and grabbed Dean by the collar and slammed him against the wall. Ballard’s voice yelled, “Pete, that is _enough_!”

“You asked for the truth,” Dean reminded him, and then laughed.

The video cut out there, and Castiel leaned back again, feeling like he had been sucker punched more than once in the diaphragm. The video turned to black and DVD player announced that there was no more to play, and Castiel hit the stop button mechanically, not making a move to get up and remove the disk. For a moment, his family was silent.

And then Balthazar said, “Well, that son of a bitch is bat-shit crazy ten times to Sunday.”

“Dude, seriously,” Charlie muttered. “He had those crazy eyes.”

“He actually believed what he was saying,” Castiel added to their commentary, feeling like he was underwater, moving too slowly. “Jesus Christ. He’s killing people because he thinks he’s fighting _monsters_?”

“Well, John Winchester was a bit of a drinker,” Balthazar said, shrugging. “Who knows what pills and liquor he might have started to mix when his wife died. Maybe he convinced his sons to think the way he did.”

“Dean _hated_ his father half the time,” Castiel said. “It makes no sense. That’s an extremely different Dean than he ever was.”

It felt like Castiel was floating underwater, maybe even in water under a sheet of ice, and he was suffocating, sick and suffocating, because he had thought he had known Dean. He had the same similar mannerisms—he always acted cocky and arrogant when he was caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing, and he never was the biggest fan of authority—but there was one thing about Dean that Castiel had always treasured, and it was that Dean never lied. People had to be careful before they asked Dean a hard question, because he was the first one to give you the painful truth, and Castiel knew for a fact that Dean respected his own ability to do that so unflinchingly. Dean only lied to protect people, and not because he wanted to make a cop angry.

Castiel didn’t understand. He didn’t even begin to understand the man who had just been on the screen, the man who was the skeleton of who Castiel was once best friends with, the man who no longer held anything to the ideal that Castiel was still hopelessly in love with. And Castiel hated himself, just a little bit, for the way his heart had pounded quicker at seeing Dean’s face, the way it had seemed impossible for him to swallow when he had heard Dean’s voice for the first time since they were fifteen.

It wasn’t fair that someone that crazy could be that good-looking.

Castiel couldn’t listen, was caught in too much of a blur, but he was aware of his parents and his siblings all making excuses, all of them making their way upstairs to their beds for a couple extra hours of sleep, forgetting the tape they just watched because it didn’t mean nearly as much to them, shoving into the back of their mind to think of later every time he mentioned the name Dean Winchester from then on out. They would think of the crazy guy who thought he was tracking a spirit, the crazy guy that claimed the thing that looked like him that died in St. Louis was a shape-shifter.

Castiel watched the video again and again, watching everything, listening to everything, taking everything in.

By the time his mother made his way downstairs to make breakfast, Castiel would have been lying if he would have said that he almost didn’t believe Dean Winchester’s stories. No matter how impossible, Castiel was willing to believe anything to explain how he had sat next to Dean’s dead body in St. Louis when he was obviously still kicking. Anything could have explained it to Castiel at that point, and, somehow shape-shifters were sounding damn good.

Castiel leaned his head back, rubbing his eyes.

He had a lot of things to think about, a lot of things to consider. But he knew one thing—his search for Dean Winchester needed to be tweaked a little bit.

He was going to find him this time.

He couldn’t wait for his answers anymore. Castiel decided that it was time for him to learn the truth—no matter what it took.

That was probably his biggest mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too tired to edit. 
> 
> My Tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com
> 
> x Slang


	7. This is War

“What the bloody hell are you in Chicago for?” Balthazar demanded two days after the new year, 2007, was upon them, sounding horrified that Castiel actually left his house to do things other than visit Lawrence. “Chicago must be freezing. I wouldn’t even pay my worst enemy to have to live in Chicago in the wintertime.”

“Could be worse,” Castiel admitted, shrugging to no one. “Naomi and I are on a case, actually. You’re not going to like it.”

“Winchesters, eh?” Balth snorted. “Should have been able to guess.”

“It’s nothing concrete,” Castiel admitted to his brother, crossing the police room to look out the window, making a face at the tree across the street bending from the force of the wind. “The Bureau isn’t even getting me a hotel room, it’s so unlikely I’ll need to stay. I’ll be heading back to Denver in a few hours, back into the freezing cold mountain.”

Balthazar laughed and said, “Hey, it’s your fault for going to Michael’s field office. You could have planted yourself in somewhere boring, like Atlanta. Or warm, like Maui.”

Castiel laughed.

He had been doing significantly better since he had last seen his parents and siblings and Balthazar—the time that passed made him realize what he was doing, and he straightened his act back up, and he liked to think that it was for good. It felt like a good happy medium—if he didn’t let his obsession with the Winchester become too crazy, he could remain a functioning human being, and he didn’t like getting the sideways glances from people like they thought he was about to shoot up a school or something.

It made everyone happy, even Castiel, and he figured that was what counted.

He had been having a hard time finding the Winchesters again. He barely even got to them here—an officer was bored and ran the plates, but they went through clean. Eventually, though, it worked to the national database and alerted to Castiel’s server, and he was obligated to go investigate. But the Winchesters were probably only passing through—they never usually went to towns as big as Chicago for reasons that Castiel didn’t understand, but he didn’t dwell on it. He had realized long ago, after seeing Dean’s video, that maybe he didn’t understand the Winchesters as much as he had once liked to think he had. He stopped trying to think he had the perfect lock on them, and he started thinking a little more outside of the box.

And he was getting better luck that way, overall. He was picking up on hints quicker, only days behind them rather than weeks. It had only been two days since they had passed through Chicago—the question was where they were going, because they hadn’t popped up again at all again since this place.

Balthazar sighed, repositioning his phone enough that Castiel’s ear was suddenly filled with sound and rustling, almost like wind, before Balthazar’s voice returned. “Well, I’ll leave you to what you were doing—I have to head out to the bank, this goddamn shitty City Bank, so I’ll let you know if I spot those pesky Winchesters while I’m there, alright?”

Castiel laughed. “Do, please. I would appreciate the extra eyes around the country.”

He could practically hear Balthazar rolling his eyes. “You’re a crazy son of a bitch, Cassie,” Balthazar told him, and then hung up, and Castiel smiled to himself as he tucked his phone back into his pocket, heading back to the desk, knowing that it would lead to nowhere, but having to try.

Everything stopped thirty minutes later. Everything. His work, the police station, the world. Everything. Stopped.

City Bank of Milwaukee was being robbed, and Castiel’s brother was inside.

He couldn’t call his parents—he was sure they wouldn’t hear of it in Kansas, sure it was out of the scope of the media outlet they were picking up here, as long as they weren’t tuning to CNN. He didn’t have to tell them that Balthazar was in the bank, didn’t have to tell them that he had called him right before he had walked in and practically told him that was where he was going to be; it would be unnecessary, for now, entirely unnecessary to scare them like that. Castiel couldn’t even put into words the panic he felt, looking at the locked doors and the cluster of police and news broadcasters gathered around the front, a situation like that so unpredictable and dangerous that Castiel’s hands were starting to shake.

He had been watching the feed for a long time it felt, but it had to have been only about fifteen or twenty minutes before the crowd in Milwaukee changed—one of the men who had taken the bank was coming out, everyone was yelling. He had a hostage, and he was bringing him outside. All of the cameras were trained on the doorway when one of the gunman handed off an ailed man to paramedics, and he took a moment and looked around, looking surprised. And Castiel almost started screaming.

Because that was Dean fucking Winchester.

“ _No way_ ,” Naomi whispered, horrified.

The next thing Castiel knew, not otherwise really aware of what was going on, he and Naomi were on a helicopter heading to Milwaukee. It took them little to no time to get there—apparently the horrible wind had been blowing in just the right direction, and they got there in thirty-five minutes. Castiel let Naomi drive, unsure of if his hands would shake too much and he would accidentally crash the car and kill them both.

_Dean Winchester._

He had meant it as a fucking _joke_ , Castiel couldn’t help but to think over and over. Balthazar had made a joke about letting him know if he saw the Winchesters brothers at the bank, and then, like a supernatural magic trick, poof—there they were.

Castiel was only able to gather his thoughts when Naomi pulled up quickly to the scene, the tires screeching as she pulled to a sudden stop. Everything stepped back into perspective, his priorities straightening out—he had to make sure that none of the hostages would be hurt, and he had to make sure that Dean and Sam Winchester didn’t get away this time. He was an agent of the Bureau, and he had been waiting for this moment for his whole life—this would be how he brings down Dean Winchester, this how he finally got his answers. And, although he never quite expected the circumstances to be this way, it wasn’t a terrible way to go.

The hostage situation seemed stable thus far. Castiel had nothing to worry about yet. He had to worry about the then and now.

Naomi looked over at him worriedly as they sat in the black car for a moment, both of them collecting themselves. They could see the shattered glass from where one of the snipers had taken out one of the gunmen—it had happened before Dean had opened the doors, before this internal screaming had started. Castiel took a long, deep breath before nodding to Naomi.

“Let’s get in there,” he said and threw open the door, Naomi following him as Castiel took to the surveillance control center, a van that was telltale at every big scene like this. He opened the door to the RV and allowed Naomi to go ahead of him before starting up the stairs, knowing that the local cops would have seen Feds coming from miles away. They were turned and waiting for him by the time he reached their eye-level, his game face on.

“Lieutenant Robards,” Castiel drawled, spotting the lieutenant his uncle had called him to tell him was leading the charge on the scene. The detective looked at him with some trepidation, like he wasn’t sure what he should think about this federal agent knowing his name.

“Yeah,” the detective managed plainly, looking Castiel up and down. Castiel tucked his hands in his trench coat, his eyes on the man.

“I’m Special Agent Novak,” Castiel introduced himself with a voice like stone.

“Let me guess,” the detective replied bitterly. “You’re lead dog now, but you would love my full cooperation.”

Normally, that would have been the case, but this was different. Not only was Balthazar inside of that building, but so were the unpredictable Winchester brothers, and that made this situation so much more different to manage. Castiel squared his shoulders a little stiffer, growing taller.

“I don’t give a rat’s _ass_ what you do,” Castiel snapped, wound too tight, and he knew he would regret it later but he only had the same couple of names running through his head, and the detective standing in front of him was the only person in the way of Castiel getting possession of the men behind those names. So he continued sourly, “ _You_ can get a donut and bang your wife for all I care. What I _do_ need is your S.W.A.T. team locked and loaded.”

Castiel _did_ regret what he said, he really did. He was never usually so unprofessional, so off the rails, but he also didn’t like the attitude that the lieutenant was possessing, and it made Castiel mad that he didn’t see this situation as nearly as serious as he should. As soon as Castiel was done speaking, the lieutenant’s eyes flashed, Castiel obviously having struck a chord.

“Listen, _Agent_ ,” the lieutenant hissed sarcastically. “Something’s not right about this. It’s, um, it’s not going down like a usual heist.”

Castiel took one step forward, and it felt like he was taking up all of the space in the room.

“That’s because,” Castiel said darkly, “it isn’t one. You have no idea what you’re dealing with, do you, Robards? There is a monster in that bank—and his name is Dean Winchester.”

The man wore a blank expression and he just stared at Castiel, looking like he was shrinking.

“Now,” Castiel said, “I would like to phone into the bank. I want to speak to this monster for myself.”

Castiel’s heartbeat was steady as Lieutenant Robards readied the landline, and the call was decided it would connect. Naomi glanced at Castiel with a reassuring smile as he took the receiver, breathing slowly and easily as he pressed it to his ear, listening to the phone ringing, almost imagining the phone inside of the bank, pealing loudly in the silence, could almost imagine the torso he had seen only on a videotape and kind of on a morgue slab ambling toward it, a gun in one hand.

The answer took three rings.

“Yeah?” a voice answered, sounding annoyed—and Castiel immediately recognized it as Dean’s voice, making his pulse sputter and his breathing kick up. For the first time in twelve years, Dean Winchester was speaking directly to Castiel—even if he had no idea it was him.

“This is Special Agent Novak,” Castiel announced, pausing only afterward to wonder why he didn’t add his first name, knowing that Dean would have recognized it immediately. But he didn’t have enough time to think about his decisions, because this was a high-risk situation, and this man might very well be standing over Castiel’s brother with a rifle right now, and the risk was too real.

Dean sounded irritated when he said dismissively into the phone, “Yeah, listen, I’m not really in the negotiating mood right now.”

“Good—me neither. It’s my job to bring you in. Alive is a bonus, but it’s not really necessary.”

“Whoa,” Dean replied flatly. “Kinda harsh for a big, bad Federal Agent, don’t you think?”

“Well, you’re not the typical suspect, are you, Dean?”

There was a silent, a cold and horrified silence. Castiel felt a sick feeling of success at being able to surprise Dean like that—playing a game of cat and mouse that he loved, and being the cat for once.

When Dean didn’t speak, Castiel continued, “I want you and Sam out here, unarmed, or we’re coming in. And yes, I know about Sam too. Bonnie to your Clyde, right?”

“Yeah, well, that part’s true,” Dean said, so obviously holding onto his bravado, but it was slipping. “How’d you even know we were here?”

Castiel leaned deeper into the counter he was leaning against as he said into the receiver like he was telling a deep and dark secret, “It’s my job to know about you, Dean. I’ve been looking for you for _years_ now. I know everything—I know about the murders in St. Louis, and I know about the Houdini stunt you and your brother pulled in Baltimore. I know about the desecrations and thefts. I know that it all started in Lawrence—and I know about your dad.”

“Oh, I’m sure you don’t know shit about my dad,” Dean replied darkly.

“Ex-Marine, raised his teenage kids on the road, cheap motels, backwoods cabins, the whole shebang. Real primitive survival type, wasn’t he? I just can’t get a handle on what was happening with him—was he the one who went crazy and started the fire, or was the fire what made him wacko?”

“You got no right talking about my dad like that,” Dean darkly muttered into the receiver, and Castiel could practically see his eyes flashing. “He was a _hero_.”

“Yeah, right. He sounds like quite the charmer.” Castiel stood up a little straighter, surprised at how evenly he was breathing, surprised at how malicious he was—he would have thought he would have been more professional, but the primal obsession had taken hold, and Castiel knew what he wanted to see, and that was to see his brother safe and the Winchesters locked up in enough iron that they couldn’t lift their limbs.

Castiel glanced at Naomi, and she was watching him solidly, looking as professional as always. She nodded slightly and he turned back around, looking out the window in the command center to the bank in front of him.

“You have one hour to make a decision, Dean,” Castiel told the man he had once loved, the man who would have been king. “One hour, or we come through those doors full automatic. And we won’t hesitate to kill you, or your brother. If I find you’ve hurt any of the hostages, you’ll be worse than dead. Think about your decision, Dean.”

The call cut out, and Castiel hung up his end, his blood rushing with adrenaline, but his head had never been more clear. He turned around to face the lieutenant, who was watching Castiel hesitantly.

“Scramble your men,” Castiel told him, voice deeper than usual. “Five minutes—then we go in.”

“What?” Robards demanded, surprised. “Novak, they’ve let out one hostage. They’ve hurt no one as far as we can tell.”

“You don’t know the Winchesters like I do,” Castiel told the man. “They’re dangerous, smart, and expertly trained.”

“We can’t risk the lives of the hostages in the bank.”

“I know what I’m doing, Lieutenant,” Castiel growled. “My brother is one of those hostages, so believe me when I say this—Dean is more of a risk to those hostages than we are.”

“This is crazy,” Robards argued.

“Crazy is in there,” Castiel said, pointing to the bank. “And it just hung up on me. Scramble. Your. Men.”

Robards stared at him for a long moment. And then he picked up his walkie and called in the S.W.A.T. team to action in five minutes, telling his officers that they are going to infiltrate the bank. Castiel walked out of the command center with Naomi on his heels to head back to the car, shedding his jackets and his tie quickly to dawn a bullet proof vest and to grab his firearm from his briefcase, adding to an extra magazine. Naomi was doing the same wordlessly, checking to make sure her hair was still pulled tight away from her face before she caught Castiel’s eye and he nodded to her, closing the trunk of the car. They headed back to the group assembling at the front of the bank, Castiel stepping up to the front next to Robards; and, other than making a face, the lieutenant didn’t object.

In five minute’s time, S.W.A.T. swarmed into the bank, and Castiel wasn’t far behind.

They passed the body of the initial man that took charge of the robbery, a chubby man with curly hair, a gun strapped over his back. Naomi and Castiel lingered close behind the S.W.A.T. team as they cleared rooms, Castiel’s anxiety growing when there was no sound of shouting, no sound of rights being read or officers shouting that they had found them.

In one of the first rooms, they found the body of the first man.

“Male, African American. Goner,” one of the officers said before they all moved on, guns raised at the ready, all of them feeling the static charge of the unlikely silence.

They came to the bank vault, and Castiel took charge—he watched as a technologically-trained officer unlocked the door, letting it swing open, and Castiel with his gun raised was the first thing to be seen in the doorway, his eyes quickly scanning over all of the faces.

Terrified hostages stared back at him. Terrified hostages, and a relieved Balthazar.

“Everyone alright in here?” Castiel asked the small crowd, lowering his firearm. A couple of the people nodded weakly, a little green. Balthazar laughed once, loudly, sounding almost hysterical.

“Jesus, Cassie,” Balthazar laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see you.”

Castiel offered a small grin to his older brother. “These officers are going to get you guys out of the bank and to an ambulance while we search the rest of the building. Balthazar, I’ll be down soon.”

Balth nodded weakly as the officers began ushering them out of the vault, but Castiel and Naomi didn’t stick around for much longer. They headed to the next floor, to a line of offices, only to find officers had already flooded the floor, and one of them was approaching Castiel now, cautiously.

“Sir?” the officer asked. “My team said it’s secure. They’re gone.”

“ _What?_ ” Castiel demanded loudly. “You tell you team to _tear it apart_! The ducts, the ceilings, the furnace, _everything_!”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” the officer told him slowly.

“Why not?”

The officer gestured for Castiel and Naomi to follow him up the hallway, and he led them to an open broom closet. Castiel looked in—two officers were stripped to their underwear, handcuffed back-to-back on the floor, both of the men unconscious and, it was safe to assume, S.W.A.T. officers.

Castiel started nodding in chagrin before he started laughing, a grin breaking out over his face before he could help it, and he rubbed his face, feeling the bubbling of his frustration and anger in the pit of his stomach.

“Never a dull moment,” he sarcastically muttered to Naomi before he turned and walked toward the stairs, holstering his gun as he made his way back downstairs, stepping out through the front of the bank, his eyes searching for a familiar dirty blond head.

He spotted Balthazar sitting on the ground next to one of the ambulances, a shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders, a paramedic taking his pulse. He looked up as Castiel approached.

“I’ll give those Winchesters one thing,” Castiel said. “They definitely know how to get out of a sticky situation.”

Balthazar shook his head, shocked. “I can’t feel my skin. That last couple of hours definitely doesn’t feel real.”

“It was plenty real, trust me,” Castiel replied, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus, I wish I could have seen the look on my face when I was watching the news, freaking out about my brother, and none other than Dean fucking Winchester pops his head out of the door to the bank.”

Balthazar reached up and rubbed his face. “Did you tell Mom and Dad?”

“Not yet,” Castiel said slowly, “but you know I’m going to have to.”

“I’d be surprised if they didn’t know already,” Balth replied, nodding weakly to the abundance of news outlets spread out in front of the bank, capturing every angle. “I’m sure more than one of those caught my face when I was coming out, and yours, too.”

Castiel shrugged, looking at his brother closely. “You alright, Balthazar?”

“Been better,” his brother replied honestly, taking a deep breath. “Sorry I didn’t call to tell you about my Winchester sighting. I was a little tied up.”

Castiel laughed weakly, rolling his eyes. “I’ll forgive you, but just this once. No excuses next time.”

Balth smiled, shaking his head to himself.

“They taking you to the hospital?”

“Probably.” His brother shrugged. “I probably need to visit there, anyway.”

The paramedic who had been taking Balthazar’s pulse was helping two of the other hostages into the ambulance they were sitting behind. Castiel looked down as his brother shakily got to his feet, looking more somber and pale that Castiel had ever seen him, and he didn’t understand.

“What do you mean by that?” he demanded.

Balthazar laughed weakly through his nose. “I must’ve hit my head at some point because—you know all that crazy shit Winchester was talking about on that video? Well, he was spouting some more of it now, and I—I don’t know, Castiel. I don’t know why, but I _believed_ it. It was the only logical thing in that bank. It made so much sense—it was the only thing that was _possible_. And I don’t think I ever _won’t_ believe all that crazy shit he was talking about was happening. And that terrifies me.”

Castiel stared at his brother, shocked, but the paramedic stepped in before Castiel could say something and told Balthazar they would, indeed, be taking him to the hospital. Balthazar gave Castiel one long, withheld look before he stepped into the ambulance; the paramedic shut the doors between them, cutting them off from each other. Castiel held his breath as he watched the ambulance ride away, sirens blazing, carrying his brother away from him.

And he couldn’t help but to think about what Balthazar said, how Dean’s crazy explanation had been the only thing that made sense and how he believed it, and Castiel thought back to the video when Dean blamed his faked death on a shape-shifter and Castiel had believed that, too.

Castiel took one step closer to the bank, and then two, frowning.

He was going to have a lot to think about in the coming nights.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unedited. Yikes.
> 
> My Tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com
> 
> x Slang


	8. Where the Story Ends

When Castiel learned three months later that Sam and Dean Winchester had been arrested in Arkansas for breaking into a museum, he barely even rushed to the plane with Naomi, barely even tapped his foot when the plane cut through the air, heading closer to their destination. He didn’t expect to make it there in time—he hadn’t any other time, had always come a few minutes too late—so when Naomi and Castiel walked into the police station and found all was calm, it was almost a shock to his system. Castiel had been wary until he was lead into one on of the observation rooms, and he was staring through the one-way glass, staring at Sam Winchester, and it suddenly all caught up to him again.

“Do you want to speak to him?” Naomi asked him softly, watching his reaction carefully, waiting for an explosion like the one in Milwaukee. But that was different—that was a whole other set of circumstances. It had been real, panicking real, where he had thought he might have to choose between killing his brother or killing the Winchesters, and the thought had horrified him so much he had snapped. But now, he was calm. He was the measured and calculating person he had trained himself to be outside of his obsession, when he was sitting on the floor of his apartment, spending hours of his free time searching the country for possibly anything to do with them.

And now he was standing in front of Sam Winchester, a man he hasn’t seen in person since Sam was ten years old, and he felt a rush that felt better than a run ever could.

Castiel leaned back on his heels, looking at Sam eagerly, but he shook his head slowly.

“I want to get to Dean before something happens,” he told Naomi, rolling his eyes.

Naomi laughed a little. “These two are lucky.”

“Not lucky,” Castiel said, “but deadly smart. You think you can handle the law major?”

“Think you can handle the Ghostbuster?” she replied teasingly, raising her eyebrows. Castiel rolled his eyes but sacrificed a laugh before moving from the room, signaling to the lead detectives waiting up the hall for them. Castiel handed Naomi the file on Sam Winchester, and he tucked Dean’s back into his coat, knowing he would need the advantage over him just as much as Naomi will.

“I think we’ll be fine,” Castiel told her, and then turned to one of the detectives. “Agent Aaron would like to speak to Sam, and I would like to speak to Dean.”

“Right ahead,” one of the detectives nodded, gesturing for Castiel to follow him up the hallway as Naomi was let into the interrogation room with Sam, her voice greeting him with a sickly sweet tone. Castiel could feel his heart hammering with anticipation in his chest, and it was taking everything he could not to grin.

The detective stopped at one of the doors, looking back at Castiel. Castiel nodded him in eagerly and the detective opened the door and stepped in, not allowing Castiel much room to go in as well, meaning that Castiel would be in this alone. Perfect.

“Well, it’s about time,” Dean’s voice said from inside of the room, making Castiel’s breath catch for just one moment, because it was real and it was right there and this was everything he had wanted for so long. Dean continued to tease, “I’ll have a cheeseburger. Extra onions, if you don’t mind.”

“Someone special is here to talk to you, Winchester,” the office said, sounding amused. “Try not to be too charming.”

Dean laughed and the officer moved out of the way, muttering to Castiel that Dean was all his as he passed. Castiel allowed himself to breathe in one more time before he stepped into the interrogation room, and his eyes immediately met Dean’s.

Dean was sitting back in his chair, smiling a little bit to himself. It almost hit Castiel straight in the face—being in a room with him was like being in the room with a model, where their attractiveness is just so obvious that it’s completely in your face. Castiel smirked as he walked into the room, staring Dean down.

“You think you’re funny,” Castiel observed, almost teasingly. Dean’s grin widened.

“I think I’m adorable.” Dean beamed at him.

Castiel smiled back, shaking his head, still hovering in the doorway. “I’m a little disappointed in you, Dean,” he confessed, his voice almost a purr. “I expected you to at least recognize my voice.”

At that, the grin on Dean’s face was weighed down with worry.

“Not the Milwaukee Fed,” Dean said, Castiel only noticing his voice wavering because he had known Dean so well, and suddenly Dean was looking at him closely, almost frowning. Castiel looked back at him patiently, still smiling a little, amused, feeling like he was stalking his prey and preparing for the takedown.

“I’ll introduce myself again, maybe get your memory jogged a little bit more than just Milwaukee,” Castiel said, taking a few steps forward until he was standing directly across the table from where Dean sat in chains. “My name is Special Agent _Castiel Novak_.”

And there it was. There it _was._ Dean’s face suddenly fell, the blood leaking from his cheeks, and he suddenly looked green. He stared at Castiel like he was looking at a ghost, like he was about to be sick, surprised and horrified all at once, and Castiel leaned closer to him over the table, still smiling.

“Yeah, Dean,” he murmured. “You’re _fucked_.”

Dean cleared his throat, his face still pale, and he weakly joked, “Maybe we can just forget the cheeseburger, huh?”

Castiel sat down at the chair opposite Dean’s, folding his hands casually on the tabletop as he leaned back, looking at Dean through careful, practiced, observing eyes. Dean looked back at him, the mask building up again, but there was desperation in his eyes that he couldn’t cover, that Castiel couldn’t fully read, a desperation shining like a beacon and making Castiel wonder. He tilted his head, looking at Dean.

The whole moment felt surreal. Like a dream. Like it was too good to be true. But it was real, and he was speaking to Dean in person for the first time since the night before the fire in Lawrence, and he knew he didn’t have nearly as much time as he needed.

“You’re cornered, Dean,” Castiel told him, his voice sadder than he had meant for it to be. “Mail fraud, credit card fraud, grave desecration, kidnapping, armed robbery, attempted murder, almost six counts of first-degree murder, and let’s not forget two accounts of arson resulting in homicide . . . Where do you even find time to sleep?”

Dean hooked his lips into a lazy smile, still marred by the paleness of his complexion as he stared at Castiel, straight in the eye, barely even blinking, looking at him, looking for . . . something. Castiel stared back, trying to understand his message, but the language they used to speak with just a look had changed over the years away. Twelve years had gone by since Castiel had spoken a word of that language, and he wanted to ask but he knew he was being watched by detectives, and that they would want to know what that meant later. So all Castiel did what he had to do—he leaned toward Dean, ever so slightly, his heartbeat picking up as Dean’s face changed ever-so-slightly at the proximity.

“I have a lot of questions I need to ask you, Dean,” Castiel confessed. “Millions of them, really—but, first, we’re going to start with the obvious. I want to know what happened in Lawrence.”

“ _Lawrence_?” Dean demanded, sitting back, and it was like a spell had been broken, because his guard was back up times twenty now. “Isn’t there official reports of that by now? Didn’t I slaughter my mom and then blow the second floor sky-high?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel drawled. “Did you?”

“Didn’t I?” Dean volleyed back calmly, smiling.

Castiel reached into his trench coat pocket and pulled out the file, not even needing to look at the picture he was pulling out before he was placing it upside down on the table, right side up for Dean, who looked like he was socked in the stomach when he looked at it, breathing in sharply through his teeth.

“I don’t know, Dean,” Castiel repeated patiently, watching the horror and surprise grow on Dean’s face until he was sure it was going to make him sick. Castiel tapped a fingernail against the picture of his father’s body, and he said, “ _Did you_? Was it _you_?”

“How—?” Dean started to ask about the picture, and then let out a choked sound that sounded like stress. “Is this really the same agent I talked to on the phone about my dad only a few months ago, the same guy who called my dad crazy?”

“Is this really the same guy who held up a bank,” Castiel muttered, “that happened to have your case’s lead agent’s brother in the vault?”

Dean replied incredulously, “ _Samandriel_?”

“Balthazar, actually,” Castiel corrected calmly. “Loud, irritating, blond, now has a god-awful accent?”

“V-neck?” Dean asked weakly.

Castiel grinned, and Dean groaned to himself before muttering, “I fucking _knew_ I recognized that guy somewhere.”

“Listen, Dean,” Castiel said, leaning closer to him again, his eyes steady on Dean’s unreal green eyes. “I have been tracking you from the beginning—I have been looking for answers since the night it started. There are a lot of things that don’t make sense—St. Louis being the biggest of them. I don’t understand Lawrence, or Palo Alto, St. Louis, Milwaukee, Baltimore—or here. I definitely don’t understand here. Because, Dean, I know you. I’ve known you for a long time, and I know that you’re a smart guy that doesn’t like to act like it. So how, after escaping a bank that was locked down with S.W.A.T. agents, can you possibly convince me that you were accidentally tripped up on a motion detector?”

Dean stared at him, his eyes screaming words that Castiel could no longer hear, his hands clenched into fists on the tabletop.

“I know something happened in Lawrence that made you leave, Dean,” Castiel murmured, “and I know you’re not going to talk to me about it here, right now, but I can tell it was big. It changed everything—your respect for your father, your easy nature with violence, the art of escapism. The one thing I don’t understand is what happened afterward. I don’t understand the transition of events. I don’t understand how the guy who used to be my best friend is now a psychotic renegade with at least three lifetimes of Super Max in front of him. I don’t understand what happened in between Point A and Point B, but I’m damn well going to try. And, until that happens, you’re not going anywhere but where I want you to go. Got it?”

Dean’s lips pursed into a thin white line, but he said nothing, offered no acknowledgment. Castiel leaned back into his chair again, folding his hands onto his lap with an easy smile, patronizing.

“It’s good to see Sammy again,” Castiel remarked. “He’s taller than you now—mug shot read six foot four. Did you get a good look at him in booking, Dean? Because, if I have to, you’re not going to see your brother again until you start talking. I don’t want to—but I will if you continue to give me the silent treatment.”

“I want to know something as well, Cas,” Dean said, and a shiver rolled up Castiel’s spine in surprise—Dean had always been the only one to call him Cas, and hearing it in his voice was overwhelming. “I want to understand this _transition_ of yours—from being a nice guy to being a completely obsessive dick.”

“Dean Winchester is what happened,” Castiel replied through his teeth, feeling his eyes flashing. Dean betrayed his surprised for less than a second before he allowed himself an easy smirk, sitting back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Dean told Castiel slowly, and his pulse picked up.

“You’d be surprised,” Castiel murmured back, and Dean’s eyes flashed with something Castiel didn’t have the time to read it before the door to the interrogation room was being thrown open, cracking open their fragile bubble, and a woman was walking in, her appearance soft but her eyes steely, like she had something to prove. She looked at Castiel first.

“Agent Novak?” she asked. “Mara Daniels. I’m from the Public Defender’s office. I would like to speak to my clients, if you please.”

Naomi appeared behind her, giving Castiel an exasperated expression, and Castiel looked back to the woman, Mara Daniels, and let out a long breath, grabbing the picture of John Winchester from the table and tucking it back into his coat before giving Mara a small, hopefully charming and patient, smile.

“Of course,” Castiel said, glancing back at Dean once, knowing that it would probably be the last time he would see him until he got him in a federal institution, and he met Dean’s eyes with an easy smile, hoping Dean could see the simmering laughter he was holding back. Castiel maneuvered around Mara Daniels and stood next to Naomi in the hall, his gaze following hers.

Sam Winchester was being lead to his brother’s interrogation room, his shoulders slumped but he still looked taller than anyone in the room. His dark eyes glanced around, coming to a halt when they landed on Castiel, and Castiel grinned at him as he bit back laughter when Sam’s eyes widened, recognition flashing across his face. He stared at Castiel even when they pulled him into Dean’s room, breaking eye contact only when he had to, and Castiel heard Sam’s voice ask his brother, stunned, “Dude, is that Cas Novak?”

“Yup,” they heard Dean reply tiredly, and Naomi grinned at Castiel.

“Shit,” Sam responded right before the door closed, cutting off the rest of their conversation.

“I take it that went well,” Naomi said, smiling. “Sam wasn’t very forthcoming with any information. He basically just pouted at me across the table the entire time, and then turned into a little thunder cloud when I mentioned his dead girlfriend.”

“It feels like I barely got to talk to him at all,” Castiel told her honestly, breathing out as they walked back into the main office, moving to where the detectives on the case were gathered, their conversation dying out when Castiel and Naomi reached them.

“They talk any for you?” the detective who had let Castiel into Dean’s room asked, sounding like he already knew the answer. Castiel rolled his eyes.

“Not many that weren’t completely sarcastic,” Castiel informed them, shrugging. “What day is their arraignment?”

“Tuesday,” one said.

Castiel bypassed that he didn’t know what day it was today and said, “Look, I want their extradition to a federal facility to have been done yesterday, okay? I’ll deal with Wisconsin and Missouri and everyone else who wants to get their hands on the Winchesters—the minute that they are cleared, I want them on the way to ADX, you got it?”

“Loud and clear, boss,” the lead detective slurred, shrugging. “They’ll try to stall extradition, I’ll guarantee that.”

“How long do you think they’ll try to buy?”

“They’ll be in county, which is going to be nice and easy for two ruthless guys like them, so . . . a week?”

“Make it less,” Castiel told them, putting his hands in his pockets. “I don’t think I need to remind you about the brothers and their pension for disappearing acts, do I?”

“No, sir,” the lead detective replied. “I can tell by their ranking on the Most Wanted.”

“Good,” Castiel said, smiling. “Do you boys think you can manage to sacrifice a desk for me and my partner?”

In no time, the hospitable guys from Arkansas had Castiel and Naomi set up in a small conference room at the back of the station, and it was there that they watched Sam and Dean get boarded onto a bus to take them to county lock-up. Castiel didn’t mention it to Naomi, but he could have sworn that he had seen Dean throw Sam a big smirk as they got on the bus, and Sam sent him an exhausted, irritated look in response. Castiel moved back to his desk when the bus was off and chugging down the street and out of sight, flipping open a file on the Winchesters’ arrest and booking, and Naomi started to fill out paperwork on the other side of the table, the two of them working in a long since.

The Bureau got them motel rooms, but they didn’t move from their spots all night, Naomi falling asleep leaning on the conference table and Castiel much too keyed up to sleep.

It was around lunchtime when there was a soft knock at the conference room door, and Castiel looked up when he heard, “Agent Novak? Agent Aaron?”

“Miss Daniels,” Castiel greeted calmly with a small smile, probably looking as tired as he felt due to the sudden pity in her eyes. “What can I help you with?”

“Can I have a word?” she asked, stepping cautiously into the room.

“Have a seat,” Castiel said, standing and gesturing to the seat directly across from him, and she smiled thankfully as she sunk down into the chair, like she didn’t expect him to extend any courtesy at all. It made him wonder what his first impression with people usually was. “What’s on your mind?”

“I’m going to get coffee,” Naomi announced, getting to her feet and glancing between the two. “Anything?”

“Black, please, Naomi,” Castiel said, and Mara Daniels just shook her head with a no thank you and a smile. She waited until Naomi was out of the room before she breathed out, leaning toward Castiel, her eyes suddenly bright.

“You know the most about the Winchester cases than I have ever seen,” Mara Daniels told him. “You’ve been able to track them all over the country in ways I can’t begin to imagine how. So you must know what I’m about to tell you—there are some seriously weird inconsistencies in this case.”

“Welcome to my world,” Castiel drawled, smiling humorlessly.

“I talked to a cop in Baltimore who swears up and down that the Winchesters saved her life,” she told him, and Castiel remembered Diana Ballard and her quiet, determined nature with a shock to the system. “I also talked to a woman from Milwaukee who promises me that Sam and Dean saved her life as well.”

“From what?” Castiel asked calmly, and Mara Daniel balked for a moment.

“She was a little unclear,” she unsurely supplied, making a face.

Castiel took a deep breath and leaned forward. “Miss Daniels, I was in Milwaukee. My brother was one of the hostages in the bank. I talked to all of the witnesses. I am aware that their testimonies make little to no sense, and I cannot explain why. And, as much as I wish I could understand these inconsistencies that make no sense, I can’t. All I know is, wherever these brothers go, people die. That’s not a good omen to have on your back.”

“They just don’t seem cut-and-dry guilty to me, for some reason,” Mara Daniels voiced Castiel’s doubts, frowning. “I can’t put my finger on it, but something is off about all of this.”

“You’re telling me,” Castiel said with a choked laugh. “I saw Dean’s dead body on a slab in a morgue in Missouri, definitely no heartbeat, and here he is walking and talking. There are a lot of things about their case I can’t explain, Mara—but I am obligated to do a job. Even if what I really want is just answers.”

“I heard you were a grade-A douchebag,” she told him honestly, and then winced. “Sorry, that was rude. But I heard that from people who had worked on the Winchester case with you—I think his name was Robards, from Wisconsin. But you’re actually really nice.”

Castiel laughed a little. “Imagine that.”

She offered a small smile before saying, “I overheard from the observation room when you were in with Dean that—did you two used to know each other, a long time ago?”

“We were friends back before the fire in Lawrence, yes,” Castiel told her slowly, not sure why he was confessing all of this to a woman he had barely known for ten minutes.

“So this is personal for you?” Mara Daniels asked softly.

“I suppose it is, yes. Why?”

“Because you get this look on your face when you talk about them,” Mara whispered, “and it makes me think that you think they’re just as innocent as I think they are.”

And Castiel realized that was why he liked her. That was why he trusted this nobody defense attorney from Arkansas. Because she saw things that he couldn’t see in people even after he was trained, because he could tell from the first time that he met her that she was stronger willed than her easy nature made her seem to be. He couldn’t help but to be fond of her attitude, when it might be the only thing that could save this entire Winchester occasion from spiraling out of control.

“All I can do,” Castiel told her slowly, “is talk to them.”

“I’ll let you know if I figure something out,” Mara Daniels told him, slipping him one of her cards with her cell number written on the back. “Call me, um, if you need anything.”

“Sure thing, Mara,” Castiel told her, and she smiled before backing out of the room, leaving the door open as she walked out.

Less than ten seconds after Mara left the room, Naomi ducked in with two cups of coffee in her hands, her eyebrows so high they were nearly touching her hairline. She passed him one of the cups and watched him chug half of it back, blinking against the bitter taste. She pursed her lips.

“She was so into you,” Naomi said, smirking behind the rim of her cup. Castiel looked up at her, a little startled.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me that you didn’t notice. She gave you her number, didn’t she?”

“For work.”

“You’re so dense, Castiel, it’s remarkable.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, but still slipped the card into his back pocket, having a feeling that this was about to lead to a conversation that he didn’t really want to have. “No, really, I’m curious. She seems like she’s onto something.”

“That means bad for our case,” Naomi pointed out.

“Come on, Naomi, you know that I want to hear any information people can come up with on the Winchesters, even if it shatters my case. I want to see what she thinks she’s going to find.”

“Nothing,” Naomi said confidently, “because you’re the world’s leading expert in the Winchester brothers.”

Castiel sighed, realizing he was going to get nowhere with Naomi, and offered her a grateful smile instead. He leaned his elbows on the table and took a deep breath, reaching up to rub his eyes.

“I feel like the next few days are going to be something straight out of a nightmare,” he muttered. Naomi shook her head and went back to browsing through her paperwork, and, after a while, Castiel went back to reading the report as well, thinking again and again about the look on Dean’s face when he recognized him—surprise and horror and fear and . . . happiness?

He was sure he was hallucinating that last one, but he couldn’t get the expression out of his head—clear as day, for just a split second, he could have sworn Dean was about to smile, he was sure his eyes were about to light up. And he hated himself for being so convinced it was true, because he knew it wasn’t, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it, and he considered it in the back of his mind all day.

*

“A little birdy told me you caught the Winchesters.”

“I even spoke to Dean the other day, yes. They are in a county facility in Arkansas until I can get them into a federal institution for safekeeping. You’re suddenly interested?”

“They did keep me locked in a vault for a couple of hours,” Balthazar replied sourly. “I guess I’m a little curious about what’s going to happen now. You said you got to speak to him?”

“At the station, yeah, before they took them to county.”

“Did he recognize you?”

“After I told him my name, yeah. He definitely wasn’t all that happy to see me, needless to say.”

“I wish I could have seen that face,” Balth sighed.

“I told him you were one of the hostages at the bank.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

“No, I’m serious. I described you and he goes, ‘The one with the v-neck?’”

“Castiel, you’re a horrible liar, and I will see you in hell. Stop laughing, that isn’t _funny_.”

Castiel wiped at his eyes as he laughed hysterically, grinning down at his knees. He was sitting on the bed in his motel room three days after he had gotten to Arkansas, finally running out of adrenaline and needing to get sleep in an actual bed. Balthazar always seemed to know exactly when to call, and Castiel’s phone had rung the moment he had stepped out of the shower.

“Look, Balth, I know we haven’t talked in a while, but I really have to get some sleep,” he told his brother, running a hand through his hair, still a little damp. “Extradition is going to be fought over the next few days, and I am determined to win, but, for that, I need to be coherent.”

“I see how it is,” Balthazar teased him, but his brother understood. Balthazar had been noticeably more quiet as of late, a little more thoughtful—it made Castiel worry, but Charlie thinks that it’s just Balth growing up a little because of the reality of what life is like from the bank. Castiel hoped that was the case. “Call me back once you win that fight, Cassie. God knows I need the distraction. I hate Wisconsin.”

“I’ve heard,” Castiel laughed, rolling his eyes. “I’ll talk to you later, Balth. Get some sleep.”

“Ditto,” Balthazar yawned before hanging up, and Castiel laid back on the bed, setting his phone on the bedside table before he lifted the blanket up to cover to his shoulders, taking a deep breath.

Castiel couldn’t shake this feeling—that he was running out of time. He didn’t know what they meant, and what time he was supposed to be worried about, but he knew deep in his stomach that something was going to go wrong, and there was going to be no way he would be able to stop it.

He woke up the next day to peace and quiet. He went to the police station with Naomi and they spent most of the morning arguing with detectives and lawyers from all of the states the Winchesters were wanted—Wisconsin, Missouri, Kansas, Maryland, California, it was exhausting. That feeling of anticipation, of almost nervousness, stuck with Castiel all day, and he realized what was going to happen before they got the call.

The call came in around mid-afternoon, and Castiel barely even blinked.

The Winchester brothers had escaped from the county jail.

An hour later, Castiel was standing in an interrogation room with the warden of the jail, a rugged man named Deacon, who was sporting an impressive bruise on his face and a scowl. Castiel knocked his knuckles impatiently on the table, and Naomi observed Castiel cautiously from her seated spot next to him, looking at him like she was waiting for the explosion.

But there wouldn’t be one. Castiel wasn’t sure why, but he knew that he would not explode. Not this time.

“One of them came up behind me, I told you that,” Deacon was telling Castiel and Naomi again, his voice laced with a slightly undertone of irritation—Castiel had already asked him the same questions three times, but he just didn’t believe him enough to take the answer and run with it. Castiel stared down at him, watching the expression on Deacon’s face.

“You allowed them to get the drop on you.”

“Yeah, I screwed up, alright?” Deacon snapped. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want to know where they’re headed,” Castiel told him.

“How the hell would I know?”

Castiel suggested in a falsely pleasant voice, “Let’s start over again.”

“For God’s sake,” Deacon muttered to himself before pushing himself up from the table, moving like he was about to leave the room, but Castiel was faster—he got in front of him before the man managed to take more than two steps, standing unmovable. Deacon’s eyes darkened in annoyance, but Castiel had his hands in his pockets, the picture of casual.

“Again,” Castiel said. “I want to know everything they did today, from the minute they woke up to the minute they escaped.”

Deacon spoke through his teeth when he growled, “Got up. Breakfast. Visiting hours. Rec time.”

Castiel straightened a little. He hadn’t mentioned visiting hours before. “Did they get any visitors?”

“Just,” Deacon hissed, “their lawyer.”

Castiel’s head snapped to Naomi, and she suddenly stood up.

“ _Mara_ ,” Castiel muttered before they ran out the door, leaving Deacon behind, watching them go.

*

Mara Daniels sat awkwardly across the table from Castiel back in the makeshift FBI office in the police station, her eyes trained on the table. Castiel looked across the table at her, his eyes unwavering, and he leaned closer to her.

“Mara,” Castiel murmured. “It’s just you and me, alright? You and I are both on the same side here, and you know that. I need you to tell me what you talked to Dean about, and I need you to be honest with me.”

“I already told you,” she replied softly, looking at Castiel with sad eyes. “It was a private conversation between me and my client.”

“Mara, three hours after he talked to you, he busted out of prison,” Castiel reminded her like she wasn’t already damn aware of what was going on. “You’re going to get in a hell of a lot of trouble if you don’t tell us what you and Dean spoke about, even if it was about the goddamn _weather_. We need to know everything, or they might want to charge you with being an accomplice.”

“I know what they might want to do to me, Castiel,” she whispered, sighing softly, reaching up and twisting a piece of hair in between her fingers nervously. “The aiding and abetting charges won’t stick.”

“I can make them if I have to,” Castiel told her a little sadly. “Sam and Dean Winchester are mighty high on the FBI Most Wanted List, Mara, and you seem really guilty in all of this if you just don’t tell me what you two talked about. Mara, please. You can trust me, alright? I can be either your friend or your enemy, and I don’t want to be your enemy.”

Mara closed her eyes for a moment before she opened them again, looking Castiel straight in the eye. “Dean wanted me to do some research on a prison nurse that died in 1976.”

“What?” Castiel demanded, blinking once slowly. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, slumping in her chair.

“Did they want to know anything specific, anything else?” Castiel asked.

She bit her lip. “Castiel,” she whispered.

“Mara, please.”

“They wanted to know where she was buried,” Mara confessed softly.

“And did you find out where?”

She nodded slowly.

“Mara, did you tell them?”

She nodded again, letting out a long breath.

“Tell _me_ ,” Castiel whispered.

She looked up at him.

*

Castiel and Naomi’s car lead the assault on Mountainside Cemetery, the first in the line through the gates, Castiel slamming the brakes and parking it haphazardly, throwing open the door and barely managing to turn off the engine before he was on the ground, pulling out his weapon, glancing around at the peaceful, quiet, eerie cemetery, noticing two things—it was too quiet, and there was no sign of the Winchesters’ car. Castiel and Naomi directed the officers to go in different directions, leading the charge through the graves, Castiel wincing internally every time he stepped over where somewhere was buried, his eyes sharply focused on the fog rolling in over the cemetery, waiting for a sign of movement through the fogged air, and seeing nothing.

Castiel searched until he reached the end of the cemetery, his gun falling down to point at the ground as he glanced back to find Naomi facing the same problem in the distance, and Castiel ran a hand through his hair, ducking his head to hide his smile. He tucked his gun into his holster, rubbing his hands against his slacks to try to rub some heat back into them, the mid-morning chill cutting straight through his skin. He turned back and started down the entrance to the cemetery, shaking his head.

“They’re not here,” he called out to the officers, who looked confused at his retreating back. He shook his head, letting out one laugh. “It’s no use looking—they haven’t been here.”

“What do you mean, they haven’t been here?” Naomi demanded, catching up with him, grabbing his arm when he kept continuing to walk. “ _Castiel_.”

“There’s been no disturbance of the graves, no footprints, no tire tracks,” he pointed out, gesturing loosely. “They haven’t been here. No one has been here all night. Dean probably just fed the lawyer the information so that we would go on a wild goose chase and loose their trail for a day or so, and it worked.”

Naomi, shocked, let Castiel go. He walked back to the car, running a hand through his hair, and got in, but he didn’t start the engine, just closed the door behind him. He pulled his phone of his pocket and dialed a number that had been written on the back of a business card a few days ago, waiting as it rang.

“Hello?” Mara answered casually on the third ring.

“Mara,” Castiel said slowly. “You gave us the wrong cemetery.”

“Did I?” she asked innocently, and he could see her grin through the phone. And he couldn’t help it—his front dropped. A grin spread over his face and he tilted his head back, beaming up at the top of the car, a relief flooding through his veins like he almost couldn’t believe.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“Anytime,” Mara said softly. “Goodbye, Castiel.”

Castiel hung up the phone and put it back into his pocket, still looking up at the ceiling of the car. And then, not caring how crazy he might look, not caring who might see, he started laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com
> 
> x Slang


	9. Terrible Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's safe to say this is one of the longest chapters of the fic to date at 8000 words. It's also exactly the chapter we've all been waiting for. Enjoy, lovelies :)

“Happy New Year,” his father said, and Castiel raised his glass, smiling.

“Happy New Year,” he echoed his parents, clinking his wine glass against theirs and taking a tentative sip, never a fan of white wine, or most wine. His taste was catered more toward the cheap beer that he could afford from the corner store, but his parents insisted they go to a nice dinner when they stopped into Denver five days after the beginning of 2008, so he obliged their wishes and went along with them accordingly.

He was wearing one of his Fed suits as he sat across from them, his trench coat hanging over the back of the chair because he could barely ever bare to have it out of his sight, and he leaned forward into the table, picking at his bread. The restaurant was lit softly, with twinkle lights along the edges of the room and chandeliers decorated with elegant crystals hanging throughout the room, the light lamp-like, as if they had taken a step back in time when they only had the bare lighting of candles. Castiel was trying to breathe, but something anxious was closing around his throat at the constant noise, at the shuffling of people in and out. He braced his shoulders slightly—he had grown unaccustomed to crowds, unless they were those gathered in a crime scene, and that wasn’t the same kind of crowd. Everyone there was there for a reason, moving with a purpose. The unpredictability of the situation made the back of his neck itch, like someone was watching him, but he couldn’t let his father know of this newfound paranoia, so he just smiled his way through it, picking apart pieces of bread to keep his hands from shaking.

His father watched his movements cautiously still, unable to ever stop analyzing, but his eyes were soft and Castiel knew he wasn’t doing it with a poor intent. His father glanced at his mother, who sent him a fond stern look, and Castiel’s father cleared his throat, smiling.

“You been busy lately at all, Castiel?” he asked casually, swirling the wine around his glass in his own nervous tick. Castiel shook his head, making a face.

“Nothing too difficult,” he enlightened them. “Mostly local stuff, which is never much fun. But I can’t really complain.”

“Fair enough,” his dad laughed, sitting back in his seat.

Castiel always cared for his parents. They always did the best for their children, and they always were kind to the point it was almost sickeningly sweet. But, despite all of that, Castiel never really knew what to talk about with them. He used to speak to his father about psychology, but they didn’t speak much of that anymore because Castiel could see his father analyzing his words, and it made him fall silent before they left his lips. His mother always looked at him like she needed to take care of him, and it has escalated in the last several years to the point it almost felt like it was smothering him, and when he talked about cases she only asked about if he was okay or if he was going to be and if he was eating or sleeping, the constant rubbing reminder that his life tended to go wrong. He didn’t know how to tell them, but it felt like he was constantly about to explode around his parents, like he was ticking time bomb, and they were gently trying to ease him away from destruction.

This loss in communication abilities became apparent in moments like this, when it was just him and his parents and they had begun to run out of pleasantries, and now they didn’t know quite what to say.

It had been a year since Arkansas, when the Winchester brothers disappeared again with the offhanded help of Mara Daniels, and it barely even bothered Castiel. It gave him more time to think, to push the Winchesters away a bit, to have some more space. He still thought about them a lot—he was sure it wasn’t going to be so easy to turn off the constant thought stream in the back of his mind, wondering about the possibilities—but he was beginning to wonder a little more about their guilt or not. He knew other agents than him would have been so sure of it, wouldn’t even question it, but Castiel was always a different brand of person. He was a person that could be so easily and unexplainably bent by the words of Dean Winchester, the likes of which to never be seen anywhere else.

But he couldn’t help it.

Castiel knew killers. He looked a lot of them right in the eye and spoke to them for hours on end. He knew a lot about them, studied every textbook, studied every human. He understood them, for the most part, the best way someone with that erratic thought process could be understood. And, from the moment he had looked at Dean Winchester, a man accused of killing so many humans, he hadn’t seen that. He had seen the marks of violence in his eyes, of a rough life story, but he never saw the brutal urge to kill anyone who looked at him oddly. He was either a different brand of killer unlike anything ever seen, or he wasn’t all that Castiel had thought he would be. He considered this.

He had seen interview tape of Naomi and Sam Winchester and, although Sam hadn’t said much, the flashes of emotion that crossed his face at every name had been what changed Castiel’s opinion of him quickly—with Jessica Moore came a deep grief and residual sadness, and Rebecca Warren showed pity and hesitance and almost acceptance. When Sam had been asked about Baltimore, he had smiled mirthlessly and shook his head, and the flash of helplessness showed a man who showed mercy and pity to those that deserved it, and the pile of bodies with his name written on it as an accomplice didn’t add up. Castiel remembered the way that his friends at Stanford had talked about how kind Sam had been, and imagining him acting harshly in any way to people who didn’t deserve it didn’t fit his obvious outward personality. He was obviously not a sociopath, and he didn’t hide behind his humor like his brother.

Nothing added up with the Winchesters, and Castiel realized that he almost didn’t want it to.

So, about six months ago, he had put a stop to it all. He took down the majority of the articles in his house, and he packed it all up in boxes and shoved them into closets. He left only the map and a file of pictures, but he otherwise stepped mostly away from the Winchester case. Naomi worked it still, startled that Castiel’s participation was waning, but Castiel had realized that he didn’t want to find the Winchesters.

He understood why he used to want to.

He used to want to understand why Dean would betray him. He used to want to unearth a case unlike any ever seen before. He used to want to have answers. He used to want to be the pride of the department. He used to want to make his uncle proud.

And then his priorities had shifted. And then he had to have something to hold onto, or else he was going to slide right off the face of the earth.

Which is when the Winchester activity had started back up at surprising speeds, and he had thrown himself into it because it was another case, it was everything he wanted to have in his hands, everything he had wanted to be able to break the code to solve. He dedicated so much time and energy into it that he didn’t have to think about anything else, so he didn’t.

At the time, he thought he had needed that. And then Arkansas happened, and Castiel began to wonder why he wanted the Winchesters to go free, why he wanted them to run. Because he knew that he didn’t want to chase them anymore. He wanted to watch them pop up on the radar, safe and sound, but he didn’t want to intercept them. And he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

It had been almost a year since he had last seen the Winchesters. And, for some reason, he was willing to let them go.

He still felt this odd attachment to Dean Winchester, but maybe he always would. He had been the first person he loved, the first person other than his family to protect him, the first person to betray him, the first person to break his heart. Maybe Dean should always stay somewhere filed in the back of his heart, because it would protect him. Castiel began to wonder if he would be able to let Dean go, after all of these years, and wondered if he hadn’t already.

But he wouldn’t forget Dean’s smile when he last saw him, and those bright green eyes. He wouldn’t forget the easy way he held himself or the way he had been changed by the turn his life had taken. It stuck with him, but not like glue. It just hovered in the background, and he only paid attention to it when he had to.

He had obsessed with the Winchesters because it was the only thing he had left. Now, the fog had cleared.

He blinked and looked at his parents, smiling. “Balthazar still at home?”

“Yup,” his mother said, sipping her wine. “He normally stays for a bit before disappearing for a week or two at a time. I can’t even begin to imagine where he’s going.”

“He calls them road trips,” his father chimed in, rolling his eyes. “Don’t have an idea what he thinks he’s doing. He’s not getting any younger.”

“Balthazar seems to be aging backwards,” Castiel laughed to himself, rolling his eyes. “Do you want me to speak to him?”

“No, I think we can handle it for now,” his mother told him pleasantly, and a sharp pang went through his body—her words meant that, when they had gotten their other children to gang up on Castiel to try to get him to be better, that meant that his parents hadn’t felt like they could handle it, and the guilt felt worse than drinking acid.

He cleared his throat, but it didn’t get rid of the acidic taste. “You left him alone to look after Rachel?”

“Charlie stopped in to help,” his mother explained. “She works at the Richard Roman Enterprises over in Kansas City still, so she’s close enough by that she swings in every once in a while.”

“Anna still in California?”

“Nope. Portland, Oregon. She seems to be doing fine, working in a psychiatric hospital.”

“I’ll have to keep the hospital number in case I need a white jacket any time soon,” Castiel joked, and his parents both simultaneously rolled their eyes at him. “Sammy called me from Boston. He’s getting some actual work there.”

“You’re just as surprised as we are,” his father replied, laughing. “I didn’t realize how much filming is done there, not to mention how much Production Assistants are actually needed. He’s not making much, but you know Samandriel.”

“Cheers to them all,” Castiel said, and they raised their glasses.

“So, Castiel, what are your plans for the new year?” his mother asked, simpering. “You’re getting closer to thirty.”

Castiel groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

His father laughed. “You still have a few years to go, Castiel. Don’t let her bully you.”

“Have you been in a relationship at all lately?” his mother groaned, giving him the pleading eyes. “Are you ever going to give me grandchildren?”

“You have a fifty-fifty shot,” Castiel replied, smirking.

His mother threw her napkin at him. “I don’t care if you get with a guy or a girl, Castiel Novak, but I expect at least eight grandchildren from my total of five grown children, and you’re the second eldest. I’m the last person to give a damn about if they are adopted, so don’t you try to use that as an excuse.”

“I’ll keep you updated,” he told his mother, laughing, thankful that she managed to lighten the mood. “There is currently zero people in the picture, male or female, but I’ll try to keep you updated on the failure that is my love life.”

“You were with some people for a while,” his mother pointed out weakly, but Castiel immediately waved her off, not wanting to think about his failed relationships with Daphne, Meg, April, and why they failed, how it had always been him. He tried not to think about the guys he had dated and how it always felt more like flings, and how he couldn’t see past the same face in his head when he was with them and it caused it all to go to hell. He tried not to think about how everyone in the office were trying to push him and Naomi together, and he tried not to think of how, if they pushed it enough, it would doubtlessly happen and end up in disaster.

“Are you doing okay, Castiel?” his father asked him as the waiters appeared with the food, and Castiel had the distraction enough to allow a small smile to his parents, picking up his napkin and tucking it into his lap.

“I’m fine,” he assured them, and they ate in peace.

*

It was about a month later, only a few days into February, when his desk phone started to ring right around the time that the office normally closed down for the night, right before they all left to drink their sorrows away at the bar across the road. Castiel leaned over the files stacked on his desk and grabbed up the phone, using his shoulder to press the receiver to his ear. “Special Agent Novak.”

“Hello there, Agent,” a young woman’s voice purred from the other line, British and seductively predatory, and Castiel was already wary. “I was told to call this number if I had any information on those pesky Winchester brothers so high up on your office’s list.”

“You definitely have the right number,” Castiel replied, sitting up a little straighter. “What have you got for me?”

“I know where they are going to be,” she told him happily, “and I know when they are going to be there. They expect nothing.”

He paused, his eyes narrowing as he stared into space. “You think you can outsmart the Winchesters?”

“Sweetie,” she cooed, “I _know_ I can.”

“So you’re just going to hand them over, gift wrapped for me?” Castiel asked. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” she said. “I would just like to get them out of my hair for a while. The two of them always turn up in the wrong place at the wrong time. And I figure they would be the perfect Valentine’s Day gift for you, Agent Novak.”

He tried to ignore the mocking tone to her voice like she knew something he didn’t and said, “Where and when?”

She listed off a time and an address, and Castiel scribbled it onto a piece of notebook paper. “Monument, Colorado. I left them right in your backyard, Agent Novak.”

“Do I get a name, or just a bit of wordplay?” Castiel demanded with a teasing tone, and the voice on the other line let out a lilting laugh.

“Oh, I’m sure the Winchesters will be more than happy to give you my name once you get your hands on them,” she enlightened him. “But I’m sad to say that my name won’t get you far.”

“We’ll see about that,” Castiel said.

“Happy hunting,” the woman told him before hanging up, cutting off another peel of laughter, and Castiel wasn’t sure if it was another joke or not. All he knew was he had an address, and an obligation—and, really, a pull in his stomach.

He stood there for a long moment before deciding that he had to. His phone was bugged, and they would find out soon enough anyway, and he didn’t want to face the repercussions of if he decided to keep pulling away.

He had to hope that Dean and Sam weren’t stupid enough to fall into a trap when Castiel ran into Gabriel’s office with the news of the anonymous call and the address, and it was sooner rather than later that Naomi and Castiel were in a car, speeding to Monument with a place and a time, the police cooperating, and Castiel constantly wondering what was going to happen next.

*

His hopes were lost when they watched from their hub in the next room from a video camera as Dean and Sam walked into the hotel room, looking around cautiously. Sam glanced around the bedroom dubiously as the officers gathered in the hallway outside, their guns drawn, waiting for Castiel’s signal. Castiel watched as Dean started checking the drawers, and Sam wandered to the safe, frowning, wondering what they were doing. Naomi shot him a frantic glance, obviously wondering what he was waiting for, but she didn’t question him out loud as Castiel watched the brother’s movements, almost fascinated.

He hadn’t ever seen the brothers interact in a setting alone before. He hadn’t realized he had wanted to see it until he finally could.

“Any sign of it?” Dean called to his brother over his shoulder.

“Nothing,” Sam said, annoyed. “Are you sure this is Bela’s room?”

Dean turned around, holding two wigs, one in each hand. “I’d say so.”

Bela. She must have been who called Castiel. And the Winchester brothers were looking for her—because she had something they wanted? Because she took something that they wanted back?

The last seemed the most plausible—how else would she have known they would actually show, if she hadn’t been able to ensure it somehow?

The phone in the Winchester room rang. Castiel jumped, not expecting it, and Naomi had to hold up a hand to the cops in the hallway, telling them not to do anything. She stood in the doorway, monitoring for Castiel’s signal, growing obviously anxious as he waited.

Dean looked at Sam, who shook his head, clueless as to why the phone was ringing. Dean reached out and answered it cautiously, his face darkening when he heard the voice on the other end, a voice Castiel couldn’t hear but he was sure he would be able to guess.

“Where are you?” Dean growled. After a pause—“ _Where_?”

Dean glanced at his brother quickly, who was watching Dean carefully, that same annoyed look on his face, like they were both getting sick of playing the same game. Castiel wondered how long they had known Bela, and how long she must have been playing them, because that look was on a whole other annoyance level than Castiel knew.

“I want it back, Bela. Now,” Dean replied sharply. His eyes flashed at whatever her response was to that. “You understand how many people are going to die if you do this?” Castiel’s skin froze, but Dean said it in a different way than he would have expected it—instead of it being a threat, as if Dean was threatening to kill people until the thing was returned, he sounded helpless, like this thing could save them, and Castiel listened in eagerly.

He wanted to know. He watched Dean’s face change.

“I don’t know—take the only weapon we have against an army of demons and sell it to the highest bidder?” Dean responded to Bela smartly.

Castiel blinked.

An army of _demons_? _Demons?_ Was that _really_ what he just said?

Jesus Christ.

Castiel let out a long breath, but shook his head when Naomi looked at him imploringly. Not yet. He wanted to hear more about this phone call. He watched as Dean changed between glaring into space and sending the same telling looks to his brother, who didn’t take his eyes off of him, frozen like if he moved Sam thought he might break some kind of spell.

“I _know_ I’m gonna stop you,” Dean said, and then after a pause: “Oh, I’ll find you, sweetheart. You know why? Because I have absolutely nothing else better to do than to track you down.”

Bela said something that changed everything—Dean suddenly straightened up, shooting a panicked glance at his brother, and Sam automatically reached back to his waistband, and Castiel immediately recognized the move to grab a gun. He signaled for Naomi and watched as the officers broke into the room, smashing the door out of the way before the brothers had the chance to move. Sam immediately surrendered his hands high and Dean swore sharply before dropping the phone, slowly mirroring his brother.

“Hands in the air!” the officers shouted. “Down on your knees!”

“That bitch!” Dean yelled as the brothers complied, and Castiel pushed away from the desk, moving to the door where Naomi was waiting for him with a curious look on her face. Castiel hesitated in the hallway outside of the door as one of the officers demanded Dean and Sam to turn around, and Castiel watched from the doorway as the officers forced the brothers onto the ground.

“Sam and Dean Winchester, you have the right to remain silent,” one of the officers told them, and Castiel stepped into the doorway, into their line of sight, as the office continued: “Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney and have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed to you at government expense.”

Castiel took a step forward until he was standing before the Winchester brothers, and he saw Dean lift his head up enough to see his ankles, and the expression on Dean’s face immediately flooded with emotion, like that was enough for him to be able to _tell_ , and Sam’s was a complete reflection from Dean’s side. Dean and Sam turned to look at each other, sharing an incredulous look, before they both looked all the way up to see Castiel’s face, their faces still holding those same incredulous expressions.

“Hi guys,” Castiel greeted, chipper. “It’s been a while.”

Dean and Sam looked at each other again, sharing a universal “we’re so fucked” look. Sam took a deep breath but Dean closed his eyes and laid his head hard on the floor, a low groan escaping his lips. Castiel laughed mirthlessly and stepped back as the officers of the Monument Police Department heaved them up onto their feet, Sam towering at least a head over all of the officers and about half a body’s worth wide, but he made no defensive moves, only slumped his shoulders and stared down at the floor in front of him, taking another deep breath. Castiel moved to the side as the officers carted them from the room, and he watched their backs retreat down the hallway. Castiel put his hands in the pockets of his trench coat, letting out the big breath he had been holding.

“Here we go,” Naomi said excitedly, and Castiel had no doubt that she was right— _here we go,_ he thought sardonically, following her out of the hallway.

*

“Agent Novak, this ain’t my first rodeo,” the sheriff of the town, a man named Melvin, argued with Castiel after Castiel had let his two drunk and disorderly arrested out of the holding cells and let them free. Castiel let out a long breath as he turned to the shorter man, towering over him in both height and overall judicial power. The man wilted a little under Castiel’s steely, no-nonsense gaze.

“You have never been to a rodeo like this,” Castiel told the sheriff sharply, looking around at everyone in the station—the sheriff, his deputy, and a wide-eyed secretary. Castiel pointed in the direction of the front door, where the Winchester brothers were waiting in the back of a police car with four officers and Naomi watching over them. “Do you have any idea who we are about to bring in here?”

The anger was kicking into Castiel’s system—he wasn’t sure if he was more angry at the Winchesters for being able to avoid him for so long, or mad because the Winchester brothers had been stupid enough to get caught when Castiel was actually willing to give them a free pass.

He didn’t know if it was his obsession or his mercy, but Castiel was mad.

The Sheriff rolled his eyes. “Yeah—they’re a couple of fugitives.”

“They are the most dangerous criminals you’ve ever laid your eyes on, Sheriff,” Castiel said, feeling himself snap back into the obsession, a dangerous road for him to take. “Think Hannibal Lector and his obedient little brother. Do you know what these guys do for kicks? They dig up graves and mutilate corpses. They’re not just killers, Sheriff. They are Satan-worshipping nutbag killers.”

He knew he had gone too far before he had even spoke the words, but he felt infinitely guilty when he saw the blood leak from the secretary’s face, and she reached desperately for the cross around her neck. Castiel hadn’t even believed the words himself—it was like he was subconsciously putting on the act people expected of him, of being a douchebag Fed obsessed with his case, and he was showing them how douchebag Feds work. But he really wanted nothing more than to wipe all of their memories of this and to go home and think about his choices some more.

The Sheriff was a little pale as he watched Castiel move across the room, closer to the door.

“Work with me here,” Castiel told the man. “I’ll get them out of your hair and on their way to Super Max was quickly as I can, and you can all go back to the farm report.”

Melvin nodded, looking nauseated, as he said, “However we can help.”

Castiel paused before saying, “Those men of yours . . . post them at the exits.”

“Yes, sir,” the Sheriff said right before Castiel walked out of the station, crossing to where Naomi stood, her arms crossed against the cold and her finger tapping. She raised an eyebrow inquiringly when she spotted Castiel.

“I guess we’re as ready as we’re ever going to be,” Castiel muttered to her before saying louder, “Bring them in.”

Naomi nodded once and crossed back to the car as the cops lead the brothers out with some difficulty—the brothers were chained at both the wrist and the ankle, as well as to each other, so Dean stumbled a little when Sam didn’t get out of the car fast enough, shooting him an annoyed glance. But Sam sent him a sharp glare back—in order to fit the cuffs made for an average-size person, Sam was completely slumped over, looking like a moose in a pair of human-sized restraints. Naomi gestured, and two of the officers began to move them toward the building, Sam and Dean watching their feet as they tried to get the hang of walking like that. They glanced up when they neared where Castiel was leaning in the doorway, and Sam sighed while Dean rebelliously and stubbornly held eye contact, his eyes lit like bright green flame, with a dose of sadness underneath. Castiel kept his eyes until the Winchesters moved into the building, and he gestured for the two remaining officers to stay at the door. He ducked inside and watched Naomi guide them into the main room with the desks.

Dean took a look around at the three cautious faces watching him and raised his eyebrows. “Why all the sourpusses?” he asked, smirking widely.

Naomi scowled. “I’ll show you to the cells,” she said, reaching out and grabbing Dean’s arm, and Castiel watched her long, thin fingers curling hard around his bicep, her fingernails digging in.

Dean yelped. “Hey, hey, watch the merchandise!” he told her, scowling.

Naomi ignored him, continuing to tow the brothers to the back of the station, to the holding cells. Dean glanced at Nancy, and she flinched back noticeably. His face betrayed his surprise for a second before he looked at her, straight in the eye.

“We’re not the ones you should be afraid of, Nancy,” Dean told her softly, eyeing the way she was grabbing at her rosary around her neck.

Naomi seethed, like Dean was suggesting that Nancy should be more afraid of God, but Castiel hesitated where he was, surprised. Dean had looked resigned, almost sad for her. He was being honest. She was clutching a rosary, scared of them, and Dean was almost sad to see she was that afraid, because he didn’t believe he was nearly as evil as—what? What did he expect her to be afraid of?

The word rang through his head from only a handful of minutes earlier: _Demons_.

Castiel was beginning to believe the Winchester crazy was contagious, because he was definitely catching it.

Naomi was the only one to walk out of the block of the holding cells, closing the door soundly behind her. She walked over to Castiel immediately, standing close. “The other two officers are at the backdoor,” she informed him. “No one can get in or out of this building without law enforcement knowing about it. We’ve got them this time, Castiel. Relax.”

He hadn’t realized he was tense. He didn’t tell her why. “I’ll call the superiors.”

Castiel stepped away from her, out into the hallway to the front entrance, using the partition shielding him from the office as his only form of privacy as he dialed a number he knew well. He listened as it rang, and rang, and rang, and Castiel was getting irritated until there was finally an answer.

“I am in a meeting,” Michael whispered, sounding annoyed. “What do you need?”

“I’ve got them,” Castiel said.

“Which ones?”

“The Winchesters.” He could practically hear the air crackling from his uncle’s side of the line as there was a long pause, a moment of surprised silence. And then Michael let out a relieved laugh.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he laughed incredulously. “And here some of my superiors were joking your headstone would read ‘couldn’t catch the Winchester boys’.”

“They’ll be at Super Max by morning.”

“How?”

“Armored bus, loaded with men.”

“Castiel, are you trying to give me an ulcer?” Michael demanded, sighing. “A _bus_? Screw that, I’m sending a chopper.”

“Look, we have to take every precaution,” Castiel replied, annoyed.

“Like the last time? And the times before that?” Michael demanded. “It’s not you I’m mad at, Castiel. You know that.”

“Yeah, whatever. Whatever you think is best, Michael.”

“I’m sending Raphael in on it. Since he is actually _your_ superior, and my word can be completely overshadowed by his. Especially when it comes to this case.”

“Raphael?” Castiel felt _himself_ start to get an ulcer just thinking about it. “Michael, come on.”

“No, Castiel. I’ve pulled enough strings. I’m sending Raphael in with a helicopter. Keep your eye on those Winchesters until then, alright?”

“Fine,” Castiel growled.

“Nice work, Castiel. You should be proud of yourself.”

Castiel hung up without saying anything else and stepped back into the office, trying to breathe peacefully around his annoyance. He looked straight to the Sheriff, who looked wary.

“I’m going to need you to clear the parking lot,” Castiel explained to the man slowly. “My office is sending in a chopper. It won’t take it long to get here.”

The Sheriff nodded to the deputy, who nodded back and grabbed a couple of keys before ducking around Castiel. Castiel watched him leave the building before meandering over to Naomi, sure his displeasure showed on his face when he told her, “They’re sending in Raphael.”

She sighed. “I figured they might. Better go in and start talking to them now.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Castiel replied, scowling. “How much would you like to bet he takes complete credit?”

“Michael wouldn’t let him,” Naomi argued weakly.

Castiel sighed and shrugged before heading to the door, shooting Naomi a confident grin before tugging open the door to the cells, letting it close behind him with a loud sound. Castiel slipped his hands into his trench coat pockets as he approached where the Winchester brothers were sitting, pouting, in one of the holding cells, both of them watching him approach.

Castiel thought to himself sourly, _Here we go._

“Hey, Cas,” Dean greeted sourly. “Long time, no see.”

“You think I’m here to gloat,” Castiel observed out loud.

“Why else would you be here?” Dean demanded, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees while Sam stayed slumped back against the wall, folded in on himself with a permanent pout on his face as he watched his brother’s movements. “You finally have us where you want us, right? Locked up in a cell, chained up. You couldn’t catch us at the bank, and you couldn’t keep us in jail.”

“I didn’t count on you two being so smart or resourceful, I admit that. I underestimated you two,” Castiel admitted, walking forward until he was less than a step away from the bars, his eyes shining. “But you got one thing wrong—I _didn’t_ want to keep you in that jail.”

Dean smiled lazily. “Because you wanted us in your nice and shiny federal institution?”

“You two are fucking idiots,” Castiel told them, and Sam and Dean’s face showed their surprise. “I fucking _let_ you two get away in Arkansas, and you walked straight into my hands here in Monument when I was completely willing to let you two run all over the goddamn country if that was what you wanted to.”

Dean’s eyes were surprised when he looked at Castiel, and then glanced up at the video camera watching them, and then that lazy smile returned. “You’re full of shit. You’re trying to play some mind games on us to get us to tell you something.”

“That camera has no sound,” Castiel informed them, his eyebrows rising. “In a place as uselessly small as this, I doubt it’s actually even on. It’s not a trick—I’m getting sick of games, Dean. I don’t have the time for them. Mara Daniels.”

“What?” Dean asked.

“Mara Daniels,” Castiel repeated slowly. “She was your attorney in Arkansas. She gave the police the wrong cemetery when you escaped, to keep them from catching you, because she believed you were innocent. We got to the wrong cemetery, and I left early. There were only a couple of cemeteries in town, and I found you guys about to leave where you were really digging up that grave. You didn’t know that, huh? You didn’t know that I watched you guys get in the car and drive away, and I didn’t even follow behind you, didn’t call for back-up? I _let you go_.”

“And why would you do that?” Sam asked, narrowing his eyes, distrusting. Castiel stepped up until he was practically flush against the bars, staring at the brothers intensely.

“Because, despite my better judgment, I believe you,” Castiel told them.

“Believe what?” Dean demanded, staring into Castiel, asking something silently and, suddenly, like a switch was turned back on, Castiel suddenly understand their nonverbal communication again. He nodded, glancing cautiously toward the door to make sure Naomi wasn’t listening in.

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel murmured. “I think I’m starting to believe your ridiculous Ghostbuster theories. Believe it or not.”

Sam and Dean glanced at each other, thoroughly taken aback. The brothers turned back to look at him, Sam’s eyes wide and surprised, but Dean’s were hopeful, hopeful like no hope Castiel had ever seen before, and he actually had to bite back a smile.

“What did it for you?” Dean asked, his voce softer, not carrying as far. Castiel took a deep breath, considering.

“I was on the scene in St. Louis, and I very carefully oversaw your body being taken from the scene to a morgue, and you weren’t kicking,” Castiel explained, and the brothers listened, still looking so surprised. “You filmed a nice little video in Baltimore, Dean—spirits, and shapeshifters. Didn’t start believing that one until after Milwaukee, because my brother was convinced that what he saw in the bank wasn’t possible. It takes a lot to bullshit Balthazar—he’s a master bullshitter—but you guys had him completely convinced something was changing appearances and killing people.” Castiel leaned forward. “Just before we burst through the door here, you mentioned an army of demons—you weren’t being serious, right? Like, actual demons?”

“Wish I was kidding,” Dean said, laughing weakly. “You actually believe us?”

Castiel didn’t even answer, just watched them as he said slowly, “That’s what killed your mom, wasn’t it? A demon?”

They flinched, and he knew.

Sam fell back against the wall, absolutely shocked. Dean continued to watch Castiel like a hawk.

For a moment, none of them spoke.

“Those weren’t the only reasons,” Castiel admitted slowly, shrugging. “I got to go out on a little Winchester field trip on the Bureau after we lost you in Arkansas—spoke to some people who had been in contact with you. A Deputy Kathleen Hudak in Montana swore that you and Sam helped save her life, as well as the woman who lives in your old house, and the same with a Sarah Blake in New York.” Sam and Dean’s heads snapped to each other, shocked. “I’m really good at my job, guys. I’m the best at finding people, even when they think they can’t be found.”

“We’re fucked, aren’t we?” Dean demanded, looking at Castiel with an exhaustion older than the ground they walked on. “You used to rant like this all the time back in the day, when there was no good news for you to say.”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel muttered, tired. “This is out of my hands.”

Dean closed his eyes and asked, “What happens now?”

“My superior is going to get here and gloat a lot,” Castiel explained softly, his throat closing as he saw the hopelessness on Dean’s face, and the fear on Sammy’s. “They’re going to put you on a helicopter and send you to the most unconstitutional Super Max prison in the entire country. And then you two are never going to see each other again.”

Dean glanced nervously at Sam, who was significantly paler. Dean asked frantically, “There’s nothing we can do, is there? Even if I confess?”

“Dean,” Sam said, sounding angry, but Castiel cut him off.

“You’re tied with too many brutal murders, Dean,” Castiel told him slowly, softly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if one of the states you’re wanted in will give you the death penalty.”

Dean laughed sourly. “They won’t get to me in time, anyway.”

Castiel didn’t understand what that meant, but Sam did, because his face washed with despair because Dean couldn’t see him, his head turned away, but Castiel saw it all. He felt his stomach coat in cold unease and he opened his mouth to ask before the sound of a helicopter broke through the sound of the room, and Castiel’s face fell completely.

“I wish there was something I could do,” Castiel explained softly, taking a deep breath. “I tried. But trying to get you out of this—”

“It’s impossible,” Dean muttered, his hands gripping together tightly on his lap, so tight his hands were turning white. Dean’s jaw clenched as he tried to hold back the emotions in his eyes. “I got it, Cas. I hear you loud and clear.”

“I’ll try to do everything I can, Dean,” Castiel murmured, “but it’s not going to be enough.”

“I know,” Dean said, looking up at Castiel. They held eye contact for what Castiel only realized afterwards as being an inappropriate amount of time before Dean smiled sadly, and Castiel nodded in response, feeling like he was walking through drying concrete when he turned and walked away from them, closing the door behind him. Naomi stood when he exited, looking surprised at what expression was on his face.

“Castiel?” she asked. “Are you alright?”

“I’m not sure,” he told her softly right before the man Castiel hated the most in the entire Bureau walked through the door to the station, blowing through like he expected everyone to bow down at the sight of him. Castiel stood up a little straighter, his jaw clenching, as Raphael’s eyes started lazily grazing over everything in sight, taking it all in.

Raphael was a military man. He was ruthless, and, frankly, a total asshole. He was Castiel’s boss, the one above Gabriel and at about the same height as Michael, and he was the bane of Castiel’s existence. Raphael ruled unfairly and with an iron fist, and Castiel knew it would be like trying to move heaven and hell to try to get him to listen to a word Castiel had to say.

Raphael spotted Castiel and Naomi standing in the middle of the room and a slow smile spread over his face, reminding Castiel of a wild animal closing in on its prey, and he crossed the room to shove a handful of files into Castiel’s hands.

“What’s this?” Castiel demanded impatiently, knowing full well what it was. Raphael’s smile grew into a smirk.

“What can I say?” Raphael practically murmured back. “The FBI didn’t invent bureaucracy, but we perfected it.”

“You want me to do all this?”

“Sorry.” Raphael blew past Naomi without even glancing at her or acknowledging her in any other way, breezing to the doorway behind which Sam and Dean were losing all hope. Raphael tossed over his shoulder, “I’m going to take a gander at our fugitives.”

The moment the door closed behind him, Naomi and Castiel both muttered, “Dick.”

Castiel threw the files on a desk not currently being used, leaning back and deciding he would wait to do them until later. Naomi lowered herself into one of the chairs in the room, looking down and picking at one of her nails. Castiel looked up at the ceiling, trying to breathe through the swelling of hopelessness that began in his chest when he saw Sam and Dean’s hopelessness, their fear.

He realized that was why he hadn’t tried to catch them. He knew he wouldn’t be able to bear seeing that look on Dean’s face, on Sam’s face, when they realized the moment was real, when they realized they wouldn’t be able to escape this time.

Castiel let out a breath at the same time of the first gunshot.

He jerked up from the chair, Naomi on her feet right after, and their eyes connected on either side of the room as more shots went off inside of the area with the holding cells, and then they were on the move, moving faster than the sheriff and deputy, tearing through the room. Castiel ripped open the door to the holding cell hallway, his own gun in his hand, pointed straight ahead of him.

Sam was standing in the cell holding the gun in his hands, his eyes wide. Dean was groaning as he leaned on the bed. And Raphael was on the ground, not moving.

Castiel pointed his gun at Sam. “Put the gun down!”

Naomi pointed her gun at Dean, who didn’t even bother looking at her. Sam’s eyes widened.

“Wait. Okay. Wait,” Sam said, slowly dropping the gun to the ground, holding up his hands.

“He shot him!” the sheriff cried from somewhere behind Castiel but Castiel didn’t take his eyes off of the brothers, too surprised. Sam imperceptivity shook his head at Castiel, his eyes wide and startled and honest, and Castiel hated that he believed him.

“I didn’t shoot him,” Sam tried to say calmly, but his voice shook slightly. “I didn’t shoot _anyone_.”

“ _He_ shot _me_!” Dean yelled from his spot by the bed, clutching at his shoulder. “That fucking guy _shot_ me!”

“Knees, Sam,” Castiel said slowly.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Sam said, lowering himself slowly to the ground, his hands still held up in surrender. “Don’t shoot. Please. Look. Here, here.” Sam pushed the gun through the bars, and it hit Castiel’s shoe. “We didn’t shoot him. Check the body. There is no blood. We did _not_ shoot him. Go ahead, check him.”

Naomi kneeled down next to the body, looking closer.

“Castiel, there’s no bullet wound,” she told him, surprised.

“He’s probably been dead for months,” Dean groaned, rotating his shoulder as he straightened back up. Castiel noticed the blood on Dean’s jacket, as well as the blood on the wall behind Dean, and his stomach turned. “You won’t believe us if we told you.”

Dean looked straight at Castiel, and Castiel understood.

“This is ridiculous,” Naomi hissed. “I’m getting them to fire up the chopper. We’re getting you two out of here.”

Naomi stormed out of the room, rushing out to go get to the helicopter. Melvin looked uneasily at Castiel and Castiel nodded for him to get out of the room. The Sheriff nodded once before slowly walking out of the room, closing the door behind him. The moment he was gone, Castiel’s gun dropped.

“What the hell just happened?” Castiel demanded, his eyes wide, his hands shaking ever so slightly from the adrenaline rush.

“He was possessed,” Sam explained softly, getting up from the ground. Dean looked at Castiel, his game face on, but there was something like relief on his face.

“Are you trying to tell me that he was possessed by a demon?” Castiel demanded, stabbing his finger to point at the body of his dick boss on the floor. Sam grimaced.

“Basically,” Sam said.

“We’re getting you guys the hell out of here,” Castiel said.

“Please do,” Dean replied. “The demon said he was bringing friends.”

Castiel stared at Dean in horror, having so many question, but before he could ask one of them, the walkie in his pocket cracked with static, and he reached for it automatically.

“Castiel!” Naomi cried.

“What?” Castiel replied, his stomach dropping. He had never heard Naomi as anything other than cool and collected before—but she was _scared_. “Naomi, what’s going on?”

“They’re dead,” she whispered back, and Castiel’s head snapped to look at the brothers. “Castiel, I think they’re all dead.”

“Naomi, get back inside,” Castiel barked, but there was no response but silence. “Naomi?”

“Novak!” the Sheriff yelled, terrified, from the other side of the door. “Novak, the helicopter, it—it just burst into flames!”

It felt like the world around Castiel froze. Like it all just stopped. Castiel looked at Sam and Dean, whose eyes were wide and panicked but they were otherwise completely calm, professionals, and Castiel was standing in the middle of a fucking disaster, looking in calmly, the panic cold in his stomach. He looked at both of them until his eyes met Dean’s. Castiel cleared his throat, shaking his head, trying to breathe.

“I think his friends are here,” Castiel announced lamely.


	10. I Shot the Sheriff

“I have to go out there,” Castiel announced.

“That is a terrible idea,” Dean told him bluntly, not even trying to soften the blow of his words, not even seeming to realize the panic boiling in the space behind Castiel’s ribs. “We have an idea of what is out there, and it is nothing good, Cas. They’ll probably kill you.”

“I don’t see the same connotation to dying as most people do,” Castiel told him distractedly, his mind too busy turning over probabilities and possibilities in his head, and his thoughts were spinning wildly. Castiel closed his eyes for a moment. “I have to go out there and see what’s happening. There’s at least ten people outside, and they are all out there on my orders.”

“Cas,” Dean started to say, and Castiel looked up at him sharply, severing his words like the cut of a knife.

“Yell if you’re about to get killed,” Castiel told them before turning and sweeping from the room, not listening as Sam tried to call out his name, trying to call him back. Castiel closed the door between the main section of the station and the holding cells firmly, his hands shaking with what he couldn’t tell if it was adrenaline or terror, but he assumed both were fine if it got him through whatever the hell was happening. The sheriff, the deputy, and the secretary—Melvin, Phil, and Nancy, Castiel had to keep reminding himself—were in the main room and scrambling.

“I can’t get a line,” Nancy announced, letting the cradle of the phone crash back down, her hands shaking and her eyes wide. “All of the phones are out. The Internet, the cell phones, it’s all dead. How can it all be dead?”

Something turned in Castiel’s stomach—the way that she used the word _dead_ instead of _out_ , a subconscious realization of hers that Castiel didn’t have the instinct to know _sub_ consciously, only consciously, and it felt like he was about to drown in it. Castiel looked to where Melvin was filling a rifle with bullets, his hands controlled and practiced, but his face was as white as a sheet. The deputy looked like he was three seconds away from shitting his pants.

Castiel rubbed a hand over his face and heard for, not the first time or the last, the deputy ask what is going on, what is happening. Castiel looked to where Phil and Melvin were standing together, grouped together at Nancy’s desk as she continued to have what looked like a panic attack, while Castiel stood looking in on it all, a terribly accurate representation of how he has felt at most of the main points of his life, which was now running in the background of his mind like he was at the cusp of his death.

Hell, he knew it. He knew it better than most of the people in here what was going to happen when whatever was outside came in here. He had seen the fear in Sam’s eyes, saw the warning in Dean’s. He knew the chances, the probabilities, because those were the numbers he had been playing his entire life. He knew it would end, and soon, but he never expected this to be where it ended. He never expected Winchesters and demons, and he never expected he would die caught up in what seemed to be their war.

“Novak!” Melvin shouted, and Castiel snapped out of it, turning to look at the red-faced man. “ _Four_ of my men!”

Castiel had a feeling he had missed a much bigger rant, but he wasn’t interested in asking to hear anymore of it. Castiel opened his mouth, perhaps to tell the Sheriff just how little he cared about his selfish thought process at the moment, when the lights in the station all went all, all at once, and Castiel closed his eyes for just a millisecond, knowing that was anything but good.

Nancy whimpered, her eyes wide. Phil was skittish to another degree, and Melvin was absolutely frothing at the mouth.

“Oh my god,” Nancy whispered, and it seemed too loud in the room, like she had screamed.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Melvin tried to reassure her, grabbing up his rifle and fumbling with it for a moment. “We’re gonna get out of here, we’re going to get out of here _right now_.”

“Not right now,” Castiel said, holding his hand up cautiously, and the others turned to stare at him, gaping. “We don’t know what’s out there. We all walk out of here without knowing, we’re going to get slaughtered. This—this is a siege, Sheriff. Don’t walk up to a Trojan Horse until you at least know what’s inside of it.”

“So, what, we _guess_?” Melvin demanded, eyes narrowing. “Or do you already know who is outside?”

“I’ll go,” Castiel said, reaching and calmly pulling out his gun, checking it for a bullet count and finding an extra magazine in his pocket, and he knew it damn well wasn’t enough but it was worth a shot. “I’ll go and if I’m not back in five minutes, raise all of the alarms. Raise hell if you have to. And fight to get out of here.”

Nancy folded in on herself, looking horrified, and Phil looked about the same—Castiel was certain the deputy was going to end up vomiting at least once before the night was over. Melvin, meanwhile, was just staring at Castiel like he was crazy.

“I have men out there!” Melvin told him, like he wasn’t even listening to the conversation, stabbing a finger at the wall in the direction of the parking lot and where the smoking helicopter was inevitably still smoldering. “Novak, your partner is out there!”

Something snapped in Castiel, something dangerous and lethal, something that had been fragile until they felt the weight of the sheriff’s accusations and they couldn’t hold on anymore. Castiel flew forward, invading the sheriff’s personal space, and Melvin winced, shrinking back against the desk he was standing by, easily intimidated by Castiel without him having to do much of anything other than tower over him. Castiel stared at the man right in the eyes, feeling the fire burning under his skin.

“I am well aware that my partner is out there, Sheriff, thank you,” Castiel growled. “She has been a good friend of mine for many years and I care about her life a lot, and I do not need you to color my reasoning with that kind of bias. This is a militant situation, you hear me? This is no longer about anything personal—we _can’t_ make this about anything emotional. If we all go out there, at once, we are just asking to die. If I go out there, and I do not return, you get a clue about what we are up against, you hear me? Now, I don’t want to hear anything else until I get back, because I _will_ get back, and then we will talk about the proper course of action. Nancy?”

The young woman looked startled, but she looked back at Castiel coherently when he addressed her, and he prided her the strength she was showing, a civilian in the middle of a battlefield. He offered her a small smile, and she looked a little taken aback before she softened slightly, reassured enough, and he looked at her and saw Anna and Charlie, all in one, Anna’s faith and Charlie’s strength, Nancy inevitably the same age, and his heart felt like it was about to stop beating, like his chest was going to collapse and he won’t be able to breathe.

“Nancy,” Castiel said slowly, looking into her eyes. “I’m going to get you out of this, okay? Have faith in me to do that for you, okay?”

Her eyes were watery with tears, but she nodded, holding her chin up high, and she looked so much like one of his little sisters that he almost chucked her under the chin, almost threw his arm around her. But she _wasn’t_ his sister, and making a personal association like that was only going to kill him, but this case was personal long since before he crossed into this town’s city limits. Castiel took a step back and nodded to the men standing there and watching him go like they were watching a ghost turn into a shade.

Castiel slowly shrugged off his trench coat and his jacket, slinging them over an empty chair he had been sitting in. He tugged on his FBI Kevlar and clipped on his holster, reaching over for a flashlight before realizing with chagrin that the helicopter fire should be plenty light for his quick trip. Castiel patted his hands against his pockets, like he was looking for a shred of his pride, before he nodded toward the officers, heading to the door.

He offered no words or anything behind him before he slipped out of the door and into the night air, his gun in his hands and pointed around him, his eyes looking to everything at once.

At first, he didn’t realize what he was seeing, it was so unbelievable. It was almost like a scene from a movie, probably one by JJ Abrams or Michael Bay—the helicopter was sitting in the middle of the parking lot, still aflame, and pieces of debris had smashed the roofs in on two of the few cars in the lot, and they were still up in flame. Castiel looked to those for a few seconds before his mind was able to process everything else and, the moment he did, he had to swallow back the horror coating his throat.

Dead bodies, half a dozen of them. It was the first thing he realized—there was a body in the helicopter, one of the pilots still sitting in his seat, charred now beyond recognition. There were two other bodies outside of the helicopter, inevitably agents Raphael had chosen to bring with him, and there were a handful of other bodies of policemen who had gone on the raid to fetch the Winchesters, ones who were supposed to be watching the exits, all of them massacred. Their throats were ripped open, and they were lying in large pools of blood, all of their blood coming together and creating a river of red. Castiel had seen some intensely gruesome crime scenes in the job he has—but something about this one made him feel like he was about to pass out, made him stumble and nearly lose his balance to vertigo.

This wasn’t a murder. This was a bloodbath. Castiel had seen enough killings to know the kind that were for desire to kill, and which ones were for _fun._ And this one was _joyous_.

If he hadn’t believed Dean and Sam before, he certain did now, because nothing could have caused this much carnage in such a short amount of time, and in such obvious enjoyment, but a demonic son of a bitch.

He looked around, realizing something—

“Naomi?” Castiel called out hesitantly, looking around, but there was no sign of her—she wasn’t one of the bodies on the ground, and she wasn’t in the chopper—she was nowhere to be seen, and something cold was under Castiel’s skin. “Naomi?”

He took a step forward. It was something so insignificant but he should have _known_ that he should have turned back the moment he saw the burning helicopter, the bodies.

He took a step forward, and he was suddenly encased in a cloud of black and, the next time he blinked, he wasn’t him anymore. He was watching, but he wasn’t in control. Castiel was tucked into the back corner of his mind, screaming and clawing against the haze of black he could barely see through, but he couldn’t do anything to stop it. All he had was a simple regret, and it was that he should have listened to Dean when he had the chance—that he should have stayed inside, because he obviously hadn’t had the faintest idea of what was outside.

Castiel had to sit back and watch what happened next.

*

Castiel-but-not walked back into the police station, and the faces all around him relaxed the moment he appeared again, but they were soon sickened with the carnage outside he described, telling them of the blood and the fire and the slit throats and obvious murder, and he saw their fear when he told them that they were no longer outside, and he didn’t know where the cause of it was, but that there was no way they could get away from here but on foot, and that was ridiculous. Castiel’s body sat in the front room, watching the mortals move around him as they shuffled off to do something—Nancy and Phil, armed with the shotgun, emerged from the rooms of the holding cells at some point, Nancy rubbing worriedly at her wrist. In the back of his mind, Castiel was screaming, shrieking, like an animal, but the dark thing inside of his head, acting like him on the outside and saying words he would never have said, not even bothered by Castiel’s resistance, not even swayed by the distraction of his screaming. It was horrifying—he was himself, but he wasn’t. He was Castiel Novak, but he wasn’t _in control_ of Castiel Novak, and no one else knew that.

It was one of the scariest moments of his life.

He was sitting in his chair, just having finished cleaning his firearm with hands he couldn’t control, when he became aware of noises where the Winchesters were being kept, and he noticed the sheriff was missing. The darkness inside of him was hungry to see the Winchesters, to taste their blood, and Castiel tried to scream louder, to pound harder against the invisible wall, but nothing helped him. He watched helplessly as he ghosted into the cell block to find the sheriff pulling the door open to the Winchester’s cell, their faces filled with shock as the sheriff explained to them that they were getting out of there. Castiel felt the beast curling his lips into a smirk before it controlled his face again, and Castiel wished he could at least have a flash in his eyes—just enough to warn Dean . . .

“What do you think you’re doing?” Castiel demanded of the sheriff, scowling at him as he came up to stand with him. Dean tried to catch his eye but the darkness inside of Castiel seemed to know that acting oddly might alarm Dean to a problem, so it looked to the sheriff instead, narrowing his eyes into a cautious, suspicious gaze.

The sheriff stood his ground against Castiel, heatedly glaring back at him. “You were out there—you saw what’s happened, and what’s going to happen if we stay here. We’re sitting ducks—we’re getting everyone the hell out of here. We’re going to make a run for it.”

“It’s safer here,” Castiel insisted.

“There’s a SWAT headquarters in Boulder,” the sheriff kept speaking, and the darkness was getting annoyed with him, finding him useless and human and just so dull. “We can make it to there.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Castiel asserted.

“Like hell we’re not.”

The darkness didn’t have the patience for this.

Castiel watched from his corner of his mind as his hand lifted, his gun secured in his fingers, and he watched, screaming, as his finger pulled the trigger, and the sheriff was dead before he hit the ground.

The Winchesters were on him in seconds.

They grappled with his body for the gun and eventually it broke free of his hand, Castiel internally shouting his support, and he witnessed as Sam grabbed the back of his hair and dragged him down. He thought he was going to knock him out on the edge of the toilet bowl but instead he stuck his head directly into it, and there was suddenly pain everywhere—but it was the darkness’s pain, and not his own. Sam’s voice was shouting words in Latin, and Castiel lifted his head out of the water to get away from the pain to breathe, and Castiel realized in his corner that it was an exorcism, and that the Winchesters had somehow turned their toilet water into holy water.

Castiel would have been more impressed—and slightly disgusted but mostly impressed—if the circumstances were different. He listened to his screams until Sam dunked his head under the water again and he was still screaming, everything muted but everything clear, and he felt the darkness getting weaker and his mind taking back over, little by little, but it felt like the largest of all victories every time.

“Dude, hurry up!” Dean yelled when Castiel was able to catch another breath of air, Sam unwavering in the spell even as Dean shouted over him, “Sammy, you’re drowning him, and we ain’t got much time left!”

“It’s too late,” Castiel heard his voice say, the demon’s words, and he blinked and he felt the dark burning in his eyes, and Dean looked sick when he stared down at him. “I already called them. They already know you’re here. _They’re coming_.”

Sam shoved his head into the water again, and Castiel knew the moment the exorcism ended because he was suddenly screaming, and the darkness was being pushed out of him, and he had only a moment to feel the disorienting amount of water in his lungs before he lost consciousness, hitting the ground hard right as he heard Dean yell his name, the nickname only he called him.

Castiel didn’t know how long he was unconscious, but he knew it was at least a couple of seconds before his mind cleared enough that he heard Nancy tentatively ask, from a safe distance away, “Is he . . . Is he dead?”

“Cas!” Dean shouted.

Castiel jerked awake, coughing hard, and he spit up a mouthful of water to the side of him, gasping in air. He felt hands tangled in his shirt, and he blinked rapidly to find that he was staring up at Dean, and Dean was clutching at him, looking relieved and extremely tired. Castiel continued to breathe, looking around, feeling lighter. He closed his eyes for just a moment, unbelievably relieved at the absence from his mind, of the darkness he could no longer feel poisoning him.

“Was that a demon?” he demanded, his voice huskier than usual at the rawness of his throat. Dean’s eyes flashed, and Castiel almost wanted to say it was in surprise, before he nodded down at him, patting him once on the chest before he sat up, rubbing his face. Sam looked down at him from where he was still kneeling beside the toilet, looking just as much relieved as his brother.

Castiel sat up, putting a hand to his head when the world tilted a little unexpectedly, and he glanced around. Phil and Nancy were staring at them in horror from the doorway, the rifle held tightly in Phil’s shaking hands. Castiel’s eyes fell on the body on the ground outside of the cell and he remembered clearly through his eyes what had happened, and he suddenly felt sick.

“I shot the sheriff,” Castiel mumbled, stunned.

And, like he couldn’t help it, Dean replied, “But you didn’t shoot the deputy.”

Castiel turned to give Dean an incredulous look, while Sam sent his brother a glare that Castiel could feel the residual heat of. Dean cleared his throat awkwardly, still smiling a little, but shrugging it off, looking back at Castiel.

“Technically, it wasn’t you that shot him, so try not to get too worked up over it. Happens to the best of us.”

“Ten minutes ago, I was fine,” Castiel blubbered, wanting to stop talking but it was like he couldn’t, proper shock settling into his bones. “I went outside and I was fucking jumped by a _cloud_.”

“You were possessed,” Sam broke the obvious to him slowly, and Castiel blinked back at him, uncomprehending.

“Possessed, right,” Castiel replied. “By one of your demon enemies.”

“I normally love to say ‘I told you so’,” Dean told him slowly, his eyes softening, “but I won’t this time. Just—next time, listen to me when I tell you not to go outside.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Castiel told him, groaning as he forced himself back onto his feet, shaking off Dean’s offered helping hand. Castiel touched his hand to his head for a moment before he said, “Officer Amici—keys.”

The deputy started forward in surprise, thrusting the keys through the bars at Castiel, and he turned without a word and unlocked the shackles chaining Sam and Dean. The brothers eagerly removed the chains, rubbing theirs wrists, moving their legs. Castiel threw the keys somewhere behind him, not caring, waiting until the brothers looked back at him.

“It looks like you’re the professionals here,” Castiel said, “so what do you need us to do?”

“First,” Dean said, walking out of the cell and casually stepping over not only the body of the sheriff but also Raphael, stretching his back as he moved, turning around just to show Castiel his smirk as he continued, “I want a snack. And then, Sammy and I will show you some tricks.”

Sam and Castiel watched him wander into the main room in shock, his voice drifting back as he asked Phil and Nancy about vending machines or a staff room, and Sam and Castiel looked at each other at the same time. Castiel had a feeling they had the same expression on their face.

“He’s horrible to live with,” Sam enlightened him, shaking his head, and Castiel looked back to the door, rolling his eyes.

“Always was,” Castiel said, and he and the youngest Winchester brother shared a grin before following the crowd out into the main part of the building, willing to forget, even for a couple of minutes, that war was on its way.

*

Castiel figured it was safe to say that this was one of the strangest situations he had ever found himself in. The Deputy dropped a load of guns on the desk in front of where Castiel was sitting while Sam Winchester spray painted what he called a “Devil’s trap” onto the ground by the windows and doors with red paint. Dean was lounging casually in one of the office chairs, looking over a floor plan of the building while Nancy the secretary carefully cleaned the bullet wound on his arm, looking cautious of the man before her but not entirely intimidated.

Dean looked up when he heard the clatter of the firearms on the desk, and he raised one eyebrow neatly before he said, “Well, that’s nice, but it’s not going to do us much good.”

“We got an arsenal here,” the Deputy replied, irritated with Dean’s attitude, and Castiel had to tilt his head away to hide his smirk from the young man.

“You don’t poke a bear with a BB gun,” Dean pointed out to the younger man, annoyed. “Shooting them is only gonna make them mad.”

Before the Deputy could argue further, Castiel asked, “What do we need?”

“Salt,” Dean replied immediately, grinning. “Lots and lots of salt.”

“Salt?” the Deputy demanded, taken aback.

Dean rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “What, is there an echo in here? Yes, _salt_.”

Nancy shuffled, and Castiel looked to her. Dean must have noticed Castiel’s change in attention because he turned to look at the young woman as well, and she straightened her back and looked to them confidently when she announced, “We have road salt in the storeroom.”

“Perfect,” Dean chimed. “Perfect—we need salt at every window and every door.”

Dean and Castiel, as if choreographed, turned to look at Deputy Amici with expectant expressions. The Deputy looked irritated for a solitary moment before Sam set the spray paint can down and offered to go with him, sending an eye roll to Dean as to the two of them headed back to the storeroom. Dean met Castiel’s eyes and smirked at him and Castiel, despite the craziness of this situation and the unbelievable turn his reality had taken in the last couple of hours, found himself grinning back at Dean, feeling like he was a teenager again, his skin sparking with anticipation for his and Dean’s next new crazy idea.

They hadn’t seen each other in a decade, but it was still this easy to fall into step with the man. It was almost unbelievable, really. Castiel couldn’t even believe that he had considered Dean his enemy, that he ever believed that Dean had been doing the crimes that the evidence said he was responsible for.

Castiel didn’t know what was about to happen, but he couldn’t help but to relax knowing that Dean would be there to watch his back. Castiel didn’t realize how much he needed someone he trusted to do that until now.

Dean’s attention deviated from Castiel, and Castiel watched his face soften before he asked softly, “How you holding up, Nancy?”

Nancy looked at Dean, surprised. Castiel was a little caught off guard as well, but he shouldn’t be—Dean had always appeared to be tough and rugged, and he was, but he had another layer underneath of it all that didn’t come out into the open so easily. It made Castiel want to smile to know that Dean was paying attention to all involved parties, making sure all of them seemed okay.

And Nancy looked a little green. She paused for a moment, looking at Dean, weighing his question, before she smiled, looking exhausted.

“Okay,” she told him, taking a deep breath, and then paused again, her hands fiddling with a rosary. “When I was little, I would come home from church and start to talk about the devil, and my parents would tell me to stop being so literal. I guess I showed them, huh?”

The two men watched her in silence as she added another piece of tape to the bandage around Dean’s arm, and she took a step away once she had.

“That should hold,” she murmured, not looking at him.

And Dean whispered back, “Thank you.”

Nancy nodded to him and offered him a timid smile, which he returned with a lot more confidence, looking so much like an older brother that it slammed Castiel in the chest with a frantic feeling for his own younger siblings, wondering what they would think if the events here turned even more sour, but Castiel pushed it away, knowing he couldn’t dwell on it if he wanted to come out of this alive. Castiel looked at the softness on Dean’s face mixed with reassurance and confidence, and it was in that moment that he realized that he could learn to love this Dean.

Castiel loved the Dean he knew. And maybe he was a little different—he was hardened by running from the memory of his mother, running from the law and Castiel, running toward the supernatural creatures that shouldn’t be here—but he was so much the same in these mannerisms, the same when his guard dropped, and Castiel felt his chest bursting with could-have-beens so jarring that, for a moment, he thought he was going to be sick.

Through everything, so much more than Castiel even knew of, Dean had come out strong, a survivor. And he could still be compassionate, kind.

Castiel had spent so much time believing that Dean was a monster, but he was really anything but.

He should have known.

Castiel was suddenly shaken from his thoughts when the Deputy trudged back into the room, weighed down by two bags of road salt, and Dean turned his attention to him, the mask sliding slightly back into place, the game face returning. He pushed himself up from his chair, stretching his arm out and flexing experimentally while he asked the Deputy, “Hey, where’s my car?”

“Impound lot out back,” the Deputy responded, heaving the road salt bags onto the ground with a huff, rolling his shoulders once they were free.

“Okay,” Dean said, and turned for the door.

“Dean, wait,” Castiel called to him and Dean turned so quickly that it looked like Castiel had physically grabbed him and tugged him back, but Dean’s face was a normal expression, his eyebrows up curiously in a silent question. “You’re not going out there?”

“Of course I am,” Dean responded before grinning. “Gotta get something out of my trunk.”

“Not alone, you’re not,” Castiel announced, shoving himself out of his chair and crossing the space in the room until he was standing in front of Dean, almost his height but maybe an inch shorter, and he stood stubbornly when he told Dean, “I’m going with you.”

Dean looked a little surprised, almost a little impressed, before he said, “We really don’t need you getting possessed a second time there, Cas.”

“I won’t get possessed, asshole,” Castiel told him, rolling his eyes. “I’m not letting you go out there without someone watching your back. And you should probably get your ass in gear if you think we have a time limit.”

For a second, Dean just looked Castiel over, and Castiel could feel his gaze raking up his body. Castiel might have felt a little objectified if there wasn’t a flickering fondness in Dean’s gaze, and he shrugged at Castiel before throwing open the back door and stepping out into the air, and Castiel followed right behind him.

It was eerie outside. Cold, and still. Castiel had been in his fair share of hostile situations, but nothing had made static roll up his spine like it did when he looked around outside.

“Where the hell is everyone?” Castiel muttered, frowning. “It’s not that much of a small town.”

“I like to think more about the immediate area and less of the bad shit outside as well,” Dean informed him casually as he neared the fence of the impound lot. He jumped up onto it, securing his hold, and started to climb before looking down at Castiel, who was standing without moving a muscle. “What, worried about scuffing your shoes?”

Castiel just moved to the gate door and pulled out a key, and the gate swung open easily. Dean dropped down onto the ground, looking amused, as Castiel slipped the key back into his pocket and offered the man a cheeky smile.

“Did you pickpocket that?” Dean demanded, grinning. Castiel widened his eyes innocently, but it didn’t fool Dean, because he threw his head back and laughed with his whole body. “Damn, Cas, you barely even changed.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, securing a secret grin as Dean moved to walk in front of him, leading the way to where his car was, only a handful of paces away. The ’67 Impala looked just as spotless as it had when they were kids and John Winchester tried to teach Dean, Castiel, and Sam about it, but the only one who understood was Dean, and Castiel and Sam got to wander away. Castiel stared at the car, surprised by all of the memories he hadn’t realized he had forgotten, and he looked back when Dean pulled out a key and opened up the trunk, stopping short at what he saw.

“Protection,” Dean explained the markings underneath of the hood’s top without Castiel having to ask. Castiel was about to ask what he had come out here for when Dean yanked up the false bottom of the trunk to reveal a vast array of weapons, propping it up with a sawed-off, and Castiel’s eyes went so wide that they nearly fell out of his head.

Dean caught Castiel’s stare and laughed loudly as he started shoving weapons inside of the bag.

Castiel watched Dean rummage for something before the man straightened up again, shoving something into Castiel’s hands that he only managed to catch on reflex. Dean nodded to it and said, “Put that on,” and it took Castiel a second to understand what he was holding.

“What is it?” Castiel asked, holding the necklace up to the lacking light of the station reaching to them, examining the charm that hung from it. Dean rolled his eyes before grabbing it back and forcing it over Castiel’s head, catching him off guard, but he didn’t reach up to push Dean away defensively, which was surprising enough to him.

“Having that on will stop your pretty head from being hijacked by another psycho demon,” Dean explained before turning back to the trunk. “The charm is an anti-possession rune. Sammy and I have been having a lot of trouble with these assholes lately and figured it wouldn’t hurt to get a couple of those to have around.”

“Right,” Castiel said weakly, as if he would ever be able to fully understand. He looked back to the car, and he somehow couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Why do you still drive it?”

“What, the Impala?” Dean demanded before putting the trunk back in order and slamming it shut, swinging the bag over his shoulder as he turned to look at Castiel with a challenging look. “Don’t hate on the car, man. She’s a piece of beauty.”

“No, no, not that,” Castiel said, and couldn’t help but to laugh. “You know I’ve always loved this car. But, just . . . _Why_ this car? I mean, you were on the run, and this car made it about twenty times easier to find you, you know? So, really, why didn’t you stash it somewhere? Why are you hanging onto it?”

Dean paused, looking at Castiel. His face was always so carefully put together, a mask that Dean Winchester would allow to change as he wanted it to, but Castiel knew him still. He and Dean were clicking back together again like rusting cogs, whirring into motion, so Castiel could tell that Dean knew what his answer was, and he didn’t know how to tell Castiel. Castiel could tell that the question had unsettled Dean, just a little.

“Because,” Dean said slowly, shrugging, “this car is all Sam and I got. Who else’ve we got, where else do we have to go? I don’t have much, but I’ve got the Impala and Sam, and I can’t let go of either of them.”

Castiel stepped down, defeated, not wanting to see that look on Dean’s face again. “Did you rebuild it?” Castiel asked instead, gesturing to it. “I know it got completely wrecked in that car accident you had in South Dakota.”

Unexpectedly, Dean snorted. “It’s weird how much you know about my life without having been there.”

“Sorry,” Castiel told him, smiling sheepishly. “It was always a little too easy to track you—and not just because of the car.”

“How?”

“Because I know you, Dean. Or, at least, I like to think I did, and I like to think I still have some kind of idea.” Castiel shrugged and offered Dean an awkward smile as the other man stared at him carefully. “It was easier when I found out that you hadn’t killed your brother.”

Dean opened his mouth to say something, something that was probably bitter and sarcastic, but he quieted when Castiel shook his head at him.

“We don’t have time to sit around the campfire and tell stories,” Castiel reminded him. “We really need to get back inside before your friends show up again.”

“Good idea,” Dean replied, glancing around. “I hate it when it’s creepy quiet. Too ominous.”

As the last syllable hung in the air, right before they turned to leave the impound lot, the light overlooking the lot from the back of the police station began to flicker.

Dean cursed under his breath before reaching out and grabbing onto the sleeve of Castiel’s suit jacket. “Time to go,” Dean said, pushing Castiel to move forward, but Castiel reached out and grabbed Dean’s arm, his eyes to the east.

“Dean,” Castiel said, just one word, but Dean suddenly turned and looked where Castiel was looking, seeing what he was seeing.

A giant cloud of black smoke was rushing toward them in the sky, smoke that was kept in the company of blue flashes of lightning sporadically zipping through it, and Castiel didn’t need to be told what he was looking at. Dean and Castiel turned and shared a look for less than a second, their nonverbal communication telling it all, before they both started sprinting for the station as the black smoke closed in on them, and that was how the siege began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The update schedule has changed to the 15th and 30th of each month :)
> 
> My Tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com
> 
> xo Slang


	11. Jus in Bello

Castiel and Dean slammed the nearest door shut behind them, pressing their backs to it, and Sam looked up in surprise from where he was painting devil’s traps on the floor, confused. Nancy and Amici stood in the middle of the room, both of them armed and terrified, and Castiel wanted to be able to say something to them but he didn’t understand at all what they had just seen, and he felt like his heart was about to beat its way out of his throat.

“They’re coming,” Dean stated, as calm as a solider. He looked to Sam. “Hurry.”

Dean barely managed to get the words out of his mouth before the black mass that had been chasing them slammed into the window next to them, thankfully already lined with salt, and Nancy screamed, flinching away. Sam moved quickly, managing to finish the trap he was working on in seconds, before he vaulted forward and grabbed more salt and threw it to Castiel, and Castiel dropped to fix the line in front of the door.

Dean threw Sam a gun and Sam caught it like their movements were perfectly coordinated, and Sam checked the barrel before wielding it, turning around and looking at all the windows. Dean threw Castiel another gun and Castiel took hold of it, immediately pointing it at the window in a fluid motion, and Castiel had a wayward thought, thinking about how natural it was to stand with the Winchesters, even after so many years of convincing himself that he hated them.

The lights started to flicker, and the cloud of black started to cover every one of the windows. Castiel muttered a curse as the majority of the lights extinguished with a popping sound, and Nancy whimpered, clutching at the cross she wore around her neck. Dean growled as the building started to shake, as if it was an earthquake. Sam glanced to his brother, surprised by something, but Dean was wearing nothing but his game face.

As if in a vacuum, the black smoke suddenly moved upward, and then disappeared. All movement stopped. The silence was unnerving, and Castiel’s skin was crawling uneasily, uncertainly.

Dean let out a deep breath at the same time Sam dropped his gun to point at the floor.

“Everybody okay?” Sam asked cautiously, like he wasn’t sure what to expect, and Castiel let out a weak laugh.

“Define ‘okay’,” he remarked to the younger Winchester brother, following his lead and dropping the gun to point instead at the floor, figuring the action was done for now.

Dean tucked his weapon into his jeans before shoving a hand into his pocket, pulling out more of the same necklace that he had forcefully shoved around Castiel’s neck outside. “Alright, everyone needs to put these on. They’ll keep you from being possessed,” he added at Nancy’s unconvinced look, and she cautiously reached out and took one when she noted the one around Castiel’s neck. Dean handed another one to Amici with a rather lame, “There you go.”

“What about you and Sam?” Nancy asked kindly, and Dean grinned at her.

At once, moving in sync in a way that only two people familiar with each other could, Dean and Sam reached up and tugged at the corner of their shirts, tugging them down until they revealed the skin above their heart where a tattoo, a symbol like the one on the amulets, stood out in black ink. Nancy’s eyes went wide, and Castiel’s eyebrows went up.

“Smart,” he said. “How long you had those?”

“Not long enough,” Sam replied somberly, letting his shirt snap back into place.

Nancy did not seem to like Sam’s sudden morbidity, so she moved to the other side of the room, hovering nervously and almost habitually in front of a collection of filing cabinets, her hands reaching out and tugging open one of the drawers. Amici watched her, looking worried, as Castiel sat down in the nearest chair, reaching up to rub his face, letting his head stay in his hands for a long moment. He heard footsteps that had to belong to Sam move away, but Dean stayed where he was, probably watching them, reading their body language and reading the situation, seeing more than he let on the same way he always did when they were teenagers.

After a long silence that must have been about almost ten minutes long, Castiel looked up from his hands and immediately met Dean’s eyes, and Dean didn’t even care to look apologetic as he raised his eyebrows in a silent question. Castiel didn’t offer much back in a nonverbal facial expression, but instead slowly reached out to the desk he was sitting in front of, and Dean watched without comment as Castiel slowly positioned the name plate for the Sheriff facedown.

Dean looked like he was going to ask him some stupid question like if he was alright before Nancy said from the window next to the file cabinets, sounding surprised, “Hey, that’s Jenna Rubner.”

“That’s not Jenna anymore,” Sam told her as he looked out the window beside her, looking both sorry and determined, a soldier with a heart. Nancy looked to Sam, seeming startled by his words.

“That’s where all that black demon smoke went?”

“Looks like.”

Nancy looked away from the crowd in front of the window, flinching out of sight until she was gripping at one of the files from the cabinets again. Sam looked down at her pityingly when he knew she wouldn’t see her, and then he looked at Dean. Dean shrugged, a silent _what can you do?_ , and Sam sighed.

Dean looked back to Castiel before taking the two steps to meet him, reaching out and grabbing his shoulder. “Come on, Cas, let’s go set up a campfire.”

Castiel snorted but shoved Dean’s hand off his shoulder in a friendly gesture before pushing out of his seat. Sam watched them as they moved to the back storage room with the duffle bag, obviously not getting the joke but not going to ask, and Castiel could have sworn he saw Sam roll his eyes before he was out of sight, but Castiel wasn’t entirely sure if his eyes were playing any tricks on him. Dean set down the duffle on a plastic table like the kind most people use for poker nights with their buddies in their garage, and he pulled up a chair. Castiel followed suit, sitting down across from him. Dean yanked open the bag casually and started pulling out the weapons he had packed, not even batting an eye at the ones that were obviously illegal, before he slapped down a cigar box in between them.

Castiel looked at him questioningly, and Dean grinned. “You’re gonna love this,” he said before flicking open the box, looking at him expectantly, knowing he would figure it out, and the look was so familiar that Castiel had to look away.

“Shotgun shells full of salt,” Castiel said as the realization dawned on him, looking up at Dean and not even trying to hide how impressed he was. Dean grinned again and grabbed one of the guns, clicking open the barrel.

“Whatever works,” Dean said, “and these work enough. There’s only one way that kills demons for sure that we know of, and it’s a knife. Salt is enough to slow ’em down, so might as well.”

“Fighting off monsters with condiments,” Castiel responded dryly as he tugged his tie looser, rolling up his sleeves. He reached out and started filling one of the guns, he and Dean in dead silence.

Dean was waiting for him to ask. It was obvious. The problem was, Castiel didn’t know exactly what question would matter right now.

What did you ask a man you have a million questions for when you’re about to face off against the army of the unholy?

Apparently, you ask about demons, because the only thing Castiel managed to get out of his mouth was, “So. Turns out demons are real.”

“FYI, ghosts are real too,” Dean replied, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth that Castiel took as Dean assuming that he had watched the tape from Baltimore—and indeed he had, so there was no argument there. “So are werewolves, vampires, changelings, and evil clowns that eat people.”

Castiel assumed there was some kind of deeper inside meaning behind the clowns notation, and he made a note to consider asking about it later if they survived the next several hours. “Okay then.”

“If it makes you feel better, Bigfoot is a hoax,” Dean said, and then smiled.

“It doesn’t,” Castiel deadpanned, but he smiled back. “How many demons?”

“Total?” Dean shook his head. “No clue. A lot.”

That was helpful. Castiel moved one of the shotguns toward him and started to fill that one as well, following Dean’s lead, fingering one of the shotgun rounds carefully before loading the gun mechanically, used to this from neurotic days and nights on end spent in his apartment, cleaning his weapons beyond regulation, his hands nervously repeating the same action over and over and over.

“You know what my job is?” Castiel suddenly asked, and Dean looked up from his work to give him a sarcastic look.

“You mean _besides_ locking up the good guys? I have no idea.”

“My job is boring,” Castiel announced. “It’s frustrating. You work three years for one break, and then maybe you can save a few people. Maybe. That’s the payoff.”

Dean was watching him, but Castiel kept working on the gun until he was finished with it, and then he set it down off to the side, looking up and meeting Dean’s eyes, finding curiosity there. And Castiel—he hadn’t been able to talk about this to anyone. Not to anyone he worked with, obviously, and not to his family because he was afraid they would pressure him to quit if they thought he was doubting his decision at all. Castiel had spent years hunting Dean, and yet now he was sitting in front of him, and he was spilling his guts about shit he wouldn’t even tell his _family_ about.

Castiel knew this was a little unnatural, even if they had once been best friends. Still, he couldn’t help but to wonder if anything in the Winchesters’ lives were normal, or if they all just ended with frantic question marks and necessary acceptance.

Castiel continued, “I’ve been busting my ass for years to nail a handful of guys and, all this while, there’s been something off in the corner so big that I could have been tracking. So, yeah, sign me up for a big frosty mug of wasting my goddamn life.”

“You didn’t know,” Dean told him softly, watching Castiel and knowing his dreams had always been in the FBI, that he had once glorified it. Castiel clenched his jaw.

“Now I do,” Castiel replied to Dean, and then paused. “What’s out there?” he suddenly added, gesturing with his chin to the window. “Can you guys beat it? Can you win?”

“Honestly?” Dean asked. “I think the world’s gonna end bloody. But it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t fight. We do have choices, Cas, and me? I choose to go down swinging.”

“You’ve got nothing to go home to but your brother,” Castiel noted, not trying to be unkind, but Dean’s lips twitched all the same.

“Yeah,” Dean responded easily, shrugging. “What about you, Novak? You rockin’ the whole white picket fence?”

It hit Castiel like a brick that Dean—they didn’t know each other. Not personally, barely even at all. Castiel knew about Dean’s life only what he had studied from it and managed to dig up from random lives the brothers had come in contact with over the years. He knew about their life in theory, and he didn’t even know about the rest of the things, the ones with the supernatural incorporated. And, in return, Dean knew even less than him. He knew Balthazar was in that vault in Milwaukee, but he didn’t know anything else. It was astounding. It was like two past best friends had run into each other on the street, entirely foreign to one another, although they had once been the most important relationship in their life. Their lives had drifted so far away from each other that they didn’t even know the simple things.

He wondered what else he didn’t know about Dean. He suddenly wanted to know it all, not to find him, not to get the upper hand, but so that he could know a man that used to be his best friend, even if he knew it would never be the same.

The absurdity of Dean assuming that Castiel was married and domestic actually made Castiel laugh out loud. “Me?” he demanded, and then laughed again, shaking his head. “Oh, absolutely not. Empty apartment, string of angry exes. I’m right where you are.”

Dean rolled his eyes but laughed as well, looking a little surprised. “I figured that you would want to settle down somewhere, I guess.”

“I was engaged, once,” Castiel admitted, and Dean’s eyebrows rose.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Castiel replied, and then rolled his eyes. “Turned out she was batshit crazy.”

Dean tilted his head back and let out a laugh that echoed off of all of the walls.  He shook his head, still laughing slightly, before he asked, “What happened to wanting to live in Lawrence, to working freelance?”

“I grew up,” Castiel said, “and Lawrence was haunted by too many ghosts.”

“Guess I should apologize for that,” Dean replied, grimacing, but it didn’t stick, because they both knew he wouldn’t apologize—it had never been the Dean Winchester way, and Castiel didn’t need him to apologize, anyway. “I would have told you—if I could have.”

“I don’t really know what happened in Lawrence back then, Dean,” Castiel admitted, “but, if your dad took you and ran, if it was a demon or something else like it, then I am beginning to understand why you couldn’t. I just—there was nothing more terrifying than that night, and I’m not afraid to admit that. My parents thought they would have to send me away. But I understand more now. I’m realizing just how big this could be. So don’t think that you have to explain Lawrence to me right now, because I think I have all the answers I need before this clusterfuck.”

Dean looked both amused and pitying, but he stuck with a teasing smirk when he replied, “Imagine that.”

There was a loud crash, like a window breaking open, and he and Dean barely shared a glance before they both shot onto their feet, Castiel following on Dean’s heels out of the room and into an adjacent door, where there was a room like a wide storage closet. The window was busted and Sam was already standing inside, his gun in his hand. A woman was standing in the devil’s trap, a scowl on her face, looking right at Sam like she was seriously pissed off at him.

Dean made an irritated sound before angrily muttering _Ruby_ , and Castiel asked, “She a demon?”

“She’s here to help us,” Sam responded, shooting Dean a warning look like he just _knew_ his brother was about to beg to differ, and Dean scowled but did, indeed, remain silent.

Phil Amici, from where he was standing with Nancy just at the doorway, demanded, “Are you kidding?”

The woman, Ruby, he assumed, was dirty blonde and several inches shorter than Castiel, looked up at Sam expectantly, her clothes splattered with blood and her eyes angry. Dean sighed, exasperated, but Ruby didn’t even bother to pretend to give a shit about his theatrics.

“Are you gonna let me out?” she demanded to the brothers, raising one perfect eyebrow.

Dean’s eye twitched, but Sam leaned down and scratched at the devil’s trap on the floor with his knife, and Ruby grinned down at him smugly.

“And they say chivalry is dead,” she said sarcastically before stepping out of the circle, Sam straightening up, and she stretched her shoulders. “Does anyone have a breath mint? Some guts splattered in my mouth while I was killing my way in here.”

She didn’t even bother to pretend to wait for an answer, just shimmied around Castiel and walked into the main office. Castiel and Dean exchanged a look before following behind her while Sam stuck back to fix the broken salt line.

Dean did not look happy to see the demon, and Castiel couldn’t really blame him—if his demon experiences were anything to go by, demons probably weren’t the kind of person you would want hanging around as pseudo-friends.

“How many are out there?” Dean demanded the second he was in the office, and Ruby looked up from cleaning off her knife to gaze at him, the eldest Winchester obviously not her preferred brother, but she allowed him an answer all the same.

“Thirty at least. That’s so far.”

“Oh, good,” Dean said sarcastically. “Thirty. Thirty hitmen all gunning for us. Who sent them?”

Ruby glanced over at Sam, who was now standing in the doorway.

“You didn’t tell him?” Ruby demanded.

Dean’s head snapped to Sam, and Sam looked a little sheepish. Ruby grinned like this was the moment she lived for—the spark of betrayal.

“Oh, I’m surprised,” she remarked, practically purring. Castiel kind of wanted to shoot her.

“Tell me what?” Dean demanded, looking between the demon and his brothers, his eyes narrowed defensively.

Amici and Nancy stood in the background of the room, staring at everything. Castiel wondered just how crazy this experience must be in their eyes.

“There’s a big new up and comer,” Ruby explained to Dean, her arms crossed and her hip popped as if to paint her attitude in her body language. She smirked. “Real pied piper.”

“Who is he?”

“Not he. She,” Ruby corrected. “Her name is Lilith.”

“Lilith?”

“And she really, really wants Sam’s intestines on a stick,” Ruby told Dean, her eyebrows up. “She sees him as competition.”

“You knew about this?” Dean demanded toward Sam. Sam didn’t answer, looking at his brother with a little bit of guilt and a little bit of shame. “Well, gee, Sam. Is there anything else I should know?”

“How about you two talk about this later?” Ruby demanded, drawing their attention away from each other, but Dean was still obviously fuming. Castiel resisted the urge to reach out and put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll need the Colt,” Ruby added.

That changed the atmosphere. Sam looked away from her, refusing to meet her eyes when she looked at him. When she turned to Dean, incredulous, Dean showed the same evasive movements, studying her collar with a little too much precision.

Castiel didn’t know what the Colt was but, by the look on Ruby’s face, it would obviously have helped them a lot in this situation.

“Where’s the Colt?” Ruby demanded, angrily, louder, like maybe this time they would actually hear her.

“It got stolen,” Sam admitted.

Ruby was practically on fire when she growled, “I’m sorry, I must have blood in my ear. I thought I just heard you say that you were stupid enough to let the Colt get grabbed out of your thick, clumsy, idiotic hands. Fantastic. This is just peachy.”

“Ruby,” Sam tried to say.

“Shut up.” She raised her hand. “Fine. Since I don’t see that there’s any other option—there’s one other way I know how to get you out of here alive.”

“What’s that?” Dean demanded.

“I know a spell,” Ruby said, and Castiel wondered to himself in irritation if all other demons were pissy witches as well. “It’ll vaporize every demon in a one-mile radius. Myself included. You let the Colt out your sight, and now I have to die. So, next time, be more careful. How’s that for a dying wish?”

To give Sam some credit, he did look a little guilty. However, Dean barely even blinked, like it would give him the greatest joy to watch the demon woman burn alive. “Okay,” Den said. “What do we need to do?”

“Aw,” Ruby chided like Dean was an angry kitten. “ _You_ can’t do anything. This spell is very specific. It calls for a person of virtue.”

“I got virtue,” Dean affirmed, looking a little offended.

Ruby laughed. “Nice try. You’re not a virgin.”

“Nobody’s a virgin,” Dean replied, laughing himself.

Ruby’s eyebrows went up, before she looked pointedly at Nancy. Nancy looked away.

“No. No way,” Dean said, his mouth practically hanging open in horror. “You’re kidding me. You’re . . .?”

“What?” Nancy demanded, her cheeks going pink. “It’s a choice, okay?”

“So, you’ve never . . .?” Dean asked, and Castiel rolled his eyes because leave it to Dean Winchester not to be able to grasp the concept of not ever having had sex. “Not even once?”

“So, this spell,” Nancy said loudly, obviously trying to deviate the subject, looking at Ruby, and she smiled at the demon like the kind soul she is. “What can I do?”

“You can hold still while I cut your heart out of your chest,” Ruby responded in a mocking pleasant voice, smiling like a lazy cat.

“What?” Nancy demanded, horrified.

“Are you crazy?” Dean echoed.

“I’m offering a solution,” Ruby snapped.

“You’re offering to kill somebody!”

“And what do you think is going to happen to this girl when the demons get in?”

“We’re going to protect her,” Castiel snapped at her, the first word he had spoken through the whole conversation, “that’s what.”

“Very noble,” Ruby told him sarcastically.

“Excuse me,” Nancy said, but nobody paid her any mind.

“You’re all gonna die,” Ruby answered her own question. “Look, this is the only way.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean responded. “There’s no way that you’re gonna—”

“Would everyone please shut up?” Nancy yelled over the chaos, and everything went silent as they all turned to her, surprised. Her face was bright red, and she looked at Ruby, her eyes wild and beseeching. “All the people out there . . . Will it save them?”

“It’ll blow the demons out of their bodies, so if their bodies are okay, yes,” Ruby answered honestly.

Nancy paused, and then nodded. “I’ll do it.”

“Hell no!” Castiel yelled as Dean said to her loudly, “You don’t need to do this.”

“All my friends are out there!” Nancy replied tearfully.

“We don’t need to sacrifice people,” Castiel argued. “We do that, we’re no better than them.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Ruby said.

“Yeah, well, your choice is not a choice,” Dean told her coldly.

“Sam,” Ruby said, turning to him, knowing that anything Sam said would be what Dean would find law, and Dean’s hands curled tightly into fists. “Sam, you know I’m right.”

Sam didn’t say anything.

“Sam?” Dean demanded, but Sam still did not respond. “What the hell is going on? Sam, tell her.”

“It’s my decision,” Nancy asserted weakly.

“Damn right, cherry pie,” Ruby said, winking at her.

“Stop! Stop!” Dean shouted. “Nobody kill any virgins! Sam—I need to talk to you.”

Dean grabbed his brother by the arm and dragged him out into the hall. Ruby looked irritated and bored, but she just leaned against the nearest desk calmly, like she was used to stopping her arguments in the middle to let the Winchesters fight it out in private. Castiel wondered if this was a reoccurring thing, and if that was why Dean had looked so displeased the moment he had spotted her.

Ruby examined her nails, Dean and Sam’s voices muffled in the hallway, as Nancy shuffled awkwardly, nervously, obviously scared, while Amici just stood there looking like he was at a school dance filled with aliens.

It didn’t take longer than three minutes before Dean was leading the way out of the hallway, Sam looking tired but determined, and Dean announced to the room, “We’re not going to do the spell—we’re gonna fight.”

Ruby groaned and let her head fall back. Castiel gave Dean a thankful look and Dean winked at him, smirking, and, for one of the first times tonight, Castiel felt a surge of inexplicable loyalty under his skin, and he knew that he would follow Dean anywhere—even into a demon battle.

Castiel wondered if he should have gotten the psychiatrist when he had the chance.

*

Thirty minutes later, Castiel and Sam walked back into the main office to find Dean and Ruby having some kind of stare-off that broke when they joined them, both of them looking over at them.

“Get the equipment to work?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” Castiel responded. Dean’s eyebrows went up.

“So?”

“So this is fucking insane,” Castiel told him honestly, and Sam smirked in agreement. Dean scowled at them both as Ruby snorted loudly.

“Agent Blue Eyes wins Understatement of the Year,” Ruby remarked, rolling her eyes.

Dean turned back to her, glaring. “Look, I get it, you think—”

“I don’t think,” Ruby replied, narrowing her eyes. “I _know_. It’s not gonna work.” Ruby shrugged away from the desk and started for the door, offering a wave over her shoulder. “So long, boys.”

“So, what, you’re just gonna leave?” Sam demanded at her back, and she spun around.

“Hey, I was gonna kill myself to help you win,” Ruby snapped. “I’m not gonna stand here and watch you lose.” Ruby took two steps closer to Sam, looking straight up into his eyes. “And I’m disappointed because I tried, I really did, but clearly I bet on the wrong horse.” Sam’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything. Ruby looked at Sam like steel, glancing away only to look at the devil’s trap at the front door. “Do you mind letting me out?”

Castiel watched Sam do just that, and they all watched Ruby walk out in front of the police station, drawing her knife, closing the door behind her and fixing the salt line. They watched as the demons made way for Ruby to pass, and Ruby cautiously walked through them, and then the three of them turned away at the same time, looking back at the station and thinking of their plan, and Castiel took a deep breath.

*

Castiel’s immediate thought, while standing at the doors leading to the back of the building, holding a rifle filled with salt rounds, was, _This is the stupidest thing I have ever done_.

Castiel glanced backward. Sam was standing in the middle of the office, ready to start fighting, while Dean stood at the other door to the outside, the door out at the front. He caught Castiel’s eye and grinned wildly, and Castiel just rolled his eyes in response, turning back to his own door. He tightened his grip on the gun, breathing evenly, letting his adrenaline and FBI training fuel him into readiness.

“All set?” Dean yelled.

“Yeah!” Sam replied, and Castiel responded as well, “Ready!”

“Let’s do this,” Dean announced.

Castiel and Dean moved at the same time, breaking the salt lines and devil’s traps protecting the doors, Castiel throwing his open, the metal door jams squealing obnoxiously. Castiel heard a yell and a gunshot from behind him, from Sam and Dean, and all of a sudden a demon was swinging into the room from the top of the doorway, kicking Castiel, and he stumbled backwards. A demon shot through the door and grabbed him, moving faster than he had anticipated, and slammed him against the wall. Castiel grabbed at his pocket with his free hand, aiming kicks to the demon, but the demon just watched him, looking amused.

Castiel flicked off the cap of his flask and muttered, “God, I hope this works.”

Castiel splashed some of the water on the demon, and he watched in surprise as the demon shrieked and sputtered backwards, letting him go, the water appearing to burn the man, sending him to his knees as he shrieked. Castiel grabbed his gun from the ground and held it up, backing up into the hallway, shooting at a demon coming through the doorway. His back hit a solid form, and he knew without looking that it was Dean.

“Go, go, go!” Dean urged, and they were both moving in opposite directions, gunshots and shrieks the only sounds filling the building. Castiel swung at a demon with the butt of his rifle, hitting it in the head and sending it stumbling out of his way, pressing forward, knowing his job.

Demons were everywhere. _Everywhere_. Bodies filled with black unholy smoke were crowding into the building, obviously not finding Castiel all that compelling because the majority of them paid him little mind, running for the main office where the Winchesters were fighting tooth and nail, and Castiel felt a burst of relief that Dean had anticipated that to happen and that they had the majority of the weapons for it. Castiel slugged at a demon and knocked them unconscious, and one came out of nowhere and jumped on his back. Castiel stumbled into a wall, but he kept moving.

Another slammed his face hard into the door as Castiel tried to push his way into it, and he felt the blood gush out of his nose almost instantaneously. Castiel shot the demon blindly, the one on his back still trying to claw at his throat but not getting too far, and he slammed backwards into the wall, the demon yelping and letting go of him just enough.

Castiel heard the slam of the outside doors, and he knew the salt lines were being drawn, and he burst out laughing despite himself. He hit another demon that charged him and threw himself into the room, two more grabbing at him, his rifle out of bullets.

Castiel was struggling with a demon, trying to force his way deeper into the room to reach the button, when he heard Dean scream over the chaos, “Cas, _now_!”

The demon grabbed at his throat but Castiel managed to stumble out of the way just far enough to press the play button, and the entire building was immediately filled with the booming sound of Sam’s voice as he chanted an exorcism recording from the tape: “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica protestas . . .”

The reaction was instantaneous. The demon on Castiel immediately flinched away, but then went to dive for the tape. Castiel dove on top of her and brought her down, slamming his fist into her face and silently apologizing to his mother for breaking his promise about hitting girls. The demon screamed and clawed underneath of him, catching his arm and drawing blood. Castiel slammed her in the nose, and she howled, kicking at him wildly, but she was obviously losing a battle against whatever the hell exorcisms do to demons, because her eyes were black, and she wasn’t fighting nearly as hard.

Castiel jumped off of her right before black smoke billowed out of her mouth and she screamed, slumping against the ground when the demon smoke was free, frantically buzzing at the ceiling, and then flying from the room. The woman was unconscious, but breathing, Castiel stumbled to the doorway, looking up the hallway to find most of the other demons had reacted in the same way, leaving their human vessels behind.

Castiel blinked in surprise and incredulousness as the last words from the recording yelled, “Audi nos!”

There was an explosion of lights from the main office, and Castiel felt a moment of panic and _Dean!_ before everything went unearthly still. Castiel heard what sounded like bodies hitting the ground before the sound of groaning, and Castiel pushed his way through a couple of unconscious demon vessels in his scramble to get to the main office, running out from the hallway.

Dean and Sam were standing by a wall, looking around at the chaos, before they looked up at the sound of Castiel’s footsteps. Castiel reached up and wiped some of the blood from his nose away, raising his eyebrows at Dean. Dean shrugged before grinning, and Castiel grinned back. Sam laughed in relief as the people on the ground started to stir, some of them even getting to their feet. The lights flickered on, and Castiel started laughing, too, when he realized Dean’s plan had worked, and their hellish night had finally come to an end.

*

“I better call this in,” Castiel said once the last of the demon vessels stumbled out of the door toward home, running a hand through his hair. “What a hell of a story that I _won’t_ be telling.”

Dean laughed as Sam asked, “What are you gonna tell them?”

“The least ridiculous lie I can come up with in five minutes or less.” Castiel laughed incredulously, shaking his head, thinking about the night he had—and all of the people that had been lost, that he would have to explain. He looked around at the bodies they had pulled into the room—Raphael and the Sheriff, along with two unfortunate vessels, were laying on the floor in the middle of the action. Nancy was looking down at them cautiously, her face pale, but not afraid. Castiel was oddly proud of her.

Castiel felt a stab of pain when he remembered Amici coming back and stating that he hadn’t found Naomi anywhere. He wondered what had happened to her, and then, at the same time, almost didn’t want to know. Maybe, in some cases, it was best not to know everything.

“Good luck with that,” Dean told him, bringing Castiel back into reality. “Not to pressure you or anything, but what are you planning to do about us?”

“I’m going to kill you,” Castiel said frankly, and he watched the confusion slap onto Sam and Dean’s faces before laughing. “Sam and Dean Winchester were in the chopper when it caught fire. Nothing left. Can’t even identify them with dental records.”

Sam grinned at him and Dean’s lips hooked up thankfully. Castiel winked at them and said, “Rest in peace, guys.”

Sam held out his hand, and Castiel shook it, grinning at the younger boy, and Sam’s smile was practically blinding in his gratitude. He stepped back and Dean hesitated for a second before shoving forward a hand as well, and Castiel met Dean’s eyes when their hands touched, his stomach overtaken by wings he would deny until his dying day.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean murmured, dropping his hand, and Castiel offered him a sad smile.

“Thank you, too, Dean,” Castiel replied, and then looked to Sam. “Thank you both. Now get out of here.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, and then he started to walk away, the duffle bag of weapons slung over his shoulder, and Castiel was hit with the realization that the brothers had done this often. They have fought against something unnatural with people and they came out of it with their lives intact, and then they had to walk away. Castiel thought about all of the people he had called, all of the people who confirmed they had met the Winchesters and that they had been saved by them, and Castiel wondered if he would just be another face, another name, another person that helped them out. One more person saved.

Dean paused before turning around, staring at Castiel with an intensity like he was studying him one last time, before he too turned and followed after his brother. Sam held the door open for Dean and Dean was about to walk out of it when he suddenly stopped, turning around, his face determined.

“How about you come with us?” Dean asked, and it changed everything.

Castiel blinked. “What?”

Dean shrugged, acting nonchalant but, if Sam’s dumbstruck face was anything to go on, this was definitely not what happened with every other person they had met on their hunts. “You’re a damn good fighter, Cas. You didn’t even blink. And you said you hated your job—you could come with us and we could teach you about hunting.”

Castiel stared some more, taken aback by Dean’s offer.

He knew the answer. It was right at the tip of his tongue. _No_. He had to say it. He couldn’t leave his family behind like this. He had a situation to deal with here—he had men dead and no current explanation as to how—and he had his family back home. He couldn’t just leave them with a quick “I left the Bureau and now I’m gonna disappear for several weeks at a time”. It would definitely cause his parents to forcefully institutionalize him the next time he went home, so he would have to avoid them.

And he knew it was all excuses. He knew what he really wanted.

“Okay,” Castiel said, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to take it back once he said it out loud. Dean’s face lit up in a grin, but Sam still looked like everyone had suddenly started speaking Italian for no understandable reason. “I, uh, still have to deal with all of this, though.”

“It’s okay,” Nancy spoke up, her eyes hardened but still so kind, and she smiled at him. “Phil and I can call whomever you need. We can say that you left to investigate something when this happened. It’s the least we can do.”

Castiel hesitated for another ten seconds. And then he moved toward the nearest paper file and scribbled down his phone number, passing it to her, and explained, “Call or text me with the story you tell them, and then let me know when they get here.”

“Yes, sir,” she nodded dutifully, and she suddenly reminded Castiel so much of Anna that he almost felt like he got kicked in the stomach.

“Thank you,” he said again, weakly, and she just smiled, and then he was turning and walking to the door, Dean holding it open to him with a grin, Sam still looking a little confused but totally willing to go with it. Castiel paused in the air, looking up into the sky soon to turn to an early morning, and he let out the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

He didn’t know what he was doing. He had no idea. Castiel was rarely impulsive but, when he was, he was going to Princeton and leaving fiancées, so he supposed he couldn’t argue with his instincts.

Dean and Sam moved to get the car from the back parking lot, Sam obviously anxious to have a few words with Dean, and Castiel walked to the black car he and Naomi had taken from the Bureau. He grabbed his pack from the back, contemplating for a split second to just take off down the road and never look back, but he knew he wouldn’t have the strength to rip himself away from this now, not when he was finally on good terms with Dean Winchester and he still had so many questions, and when he still had an undeniable crush on him.

Castiel fisted the suit jacket and trench coat that had somehow managed to avoid the chaos of the demon attack and watched the Impala pull out from around the building, stopping in front of him, rock music already playing. Castiel paused, glancing back at the life he knew he was leaving the second he got into the car, and he swallowed his doubts as he pried open the car door and slipped into the backseat he and Dean used to sit in with Sam when John took them anywhere, setting his bag on the floor, leaning back into the seat.

“I must be out of my fucking mind,” Castiel said as Dean pulled onto the road. He snorted with laughter.

“Aren’t we all,” Dean remarked, pressing harder on the accelerator, and Castiel let his head fall back, staring at the Impala’s ceiling, wondering if he was losing his mind but not questioning if he had made the wrong decision.

Castiel closed his eyes, letting the Impala’s rumbling engines drown out the noise of his doubts.

*

Castiel wasn’t sure how long they had been in the Winchesters’ motel room before there was a knock on the door.

They had returned to the Winchester’s motel room—it was about twenty minutes outside of Monument and, the moment they got there, Sam flopped onto the bed that was obviously his, staring up at the ceiling and groaning about how the bruises on his back were going to make it hard to sleep. Dean had just rolled his eyes, avoiding his brother’s feet where they hung off of the bed as he moved around the room, grabbing up dirty clothes and shoving it into a duffle bag. Castiel had thrown his bag on the small table and immediately had unbuttoned his bloodstained dress shirt, replacing it with a new one. He had looked up to find Dean averting his gaze, and something about the whole exchange made hope burn in Castiel’s chest, even if he knew that it was for nothing.

Over two hours of silence passed, the sunlight through the window the only indication. At first, Dean absentmindedly flicked through a journal of some sort while Sam lay on his bed with his eyes closed, Castiel all the while trying to understand how he could be sitting in peace with two men he had been hunting not even twenty-four hours ago.

They fell asleep. They should have known better, but the exhaustion of the day before had hit them all at the same time, and the knocking pulled them all out of their sleep, Castiel’s head on the table in front of him, and the first thing he noticed was that the sun was way too high in the sky. Dean frowned at the door, obviously suspicious, and Sam sat up. Castiel watched as Dean got up and walked to the door, looking through the peephole before pulling the door open.

Ruby stalked inside, fuming. “Turn on the news,” she growled, her eyes flashing as she spotted Castiel in the corner.

Neither Sam nor Dean thought to argue with her, none of them liking the look on her face. Sam picked up the remote and clicked on the television as Castiel moved to stand next to Sam’s bed, Dean sinking down at the foot of the bed next to it.

The reporter was speaking, a ruined building sitting behind her: “The community is still reeling from the tragedy that happened about six hours ago. Authorities believe a gas main ruptured, causing the massive explosion that ripped apart the police station and claimed the lives of everyone inside.”

Castiel’s eyes widened and horror sunk so cold into his stomach that he wondered if he would ever be able to feel again, or if he would remain as nothing other than numb.

“Among the deceased,” the reporter continued, oblivious to their horror, “are at least six police officers and staff, including Sheriff Melvin Dodd, Deputy Phil Amici, and secretary Nancy Fitzgerald, as well as three FBI special agents, assumed to be Raphael Nolan, Naomi Aaron, and Castiel Novak.”

Castiel flinched away from his own photo in the right hand corner of the screen. Dean glanced at him, horrified, before his eyes snapped back to the television, his face deathly pale.

“Two fugitives from the FBI’s Most Wanted List, brothers Sam and Dean Winchester, were in custody and were also killed by the blast. We’ll continue to follow the story—”

Ruby slapped her hand over the power button and turned to face them, looking at them with a smug and knowing look, a typical I-told-you-so, and Castiel would have said something unkind to her if it hadn’t felt like he would start screaming the moment he opened his mouth.

“It must have happened right after we left,” Sam whispered, horrified.

“Considering the size of the blast,” Ruby began, throwing little bags at Dean and Sam, her lip curling back in distaste when she threw an extra to Castiel, “smart money is on Lilith.”

“What’s in these?” Dean demanded, looking at the bag that had hit him in the chest.

“Something that’ll protect you,” Ruby told him. “It’ll throw Lilith off your trail—for the time being, at least.”

“Thanks,” Sam said weakly.

“Don’t thank me,” Ruby snapped, losing her control, her eyes burning with hellfire. “Lilith killed everyone. She slaughtered your precious little virgin, plus half a dozen other people. So after your big speech about humanity and war, turns out—your plan? It was the one with the body count. Do you know how to run a battle? You strike fast and you don’t leave any survivors, so no one goes running to the boss. So, next time, we go with my plan.”

Ruby stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Dean looked at Sam, but Sam was still staring at the blank television, looking a disturbing shade of green, and Castiel figured that he didn’t look any better. He just kept thinking about his picture in the corner of the screen, his name among the list of the dead, and his blood ran cold as the realization set in.

He barely caught himself on the wall before his legs gave out underneath of him as he realized, _Michael_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com
> 
> xo Slang


	12. Burn

Castiel could practically hear Michael’s voice in his head.

_Oh God, Chuck._

_I wouldn’t have sent him if I would have known._

_It was a freak accident._

_He’s dead._

_Castiel is dead._

_I am so sorry._

Castiel imagined an early morning in his household on a Sunday. His mother and father were probably sitting at the table with coffee, always early-risers even on days where they had nothing to wake up early for. Maybe Rachel was tottering around the kitchen, clutching her favorite juice cup. Maybe Balthazar was throwing back mouthfuls of coffee in an attempt to wake up, blinking wildly against the light, hung-over from the night before.

Castiel imagined his father’s cell phone buzzing on the counter, and how he would get up to pick it up, thinking it would be a patient. Castiel imagined him answering and being surprised to hear from his brother. Castiel figured Michael would have been a corrupted professional, speaking the words of a script at first, and then he would have dissolved, overtaken by grief and horror and guilt. He would have told Castiel’s father that he was sorry, that he should have been able to save him, and Chuck Novak would have been silent for a long time. And then he would have become hysterical.

Castiel knew what happened the last time Michael had to make a call to his parents like that. He hadn’t been there, obviously, had instead been in emergency surgery, but Charlie and Anna had told him with shaking voices how their father had answered the phone, and how he had gone deathly silent, and then how he had broken down into sobs in the middle of the room. Their mother had started screaming, asking a million questions, and Charlie told him that the only thing her father had been saying was his name and “He’s dead” over and over again.

Castiel died on the operating table for ten minutes. Michael had called him to tell them prematurely, and his family had been traumatized because of it, but this—this was different. Michael called back only a few minutes later to tell them that Castiel had been resuscitated, that he was saved.

It’d been six hours. There wasn’t a doubt in their minds anymore.

To them, he was gone. He was caught in a blast that was so strong they couldn’t even identify the body properly. Castiel wondered if Michael had tried to tell his grieving father that at least he had died quickly.

The panic hit him hard in the chest, and Castiel gasped in air like the dying man he was assumed to be. His hand gripped the wall harder, but all he could see was his parent’s pale faces when they had come into the ICU to see him the last time something like this had happened, telling him that they had been afraid this job would get him killed from the beginning.

Castiel couldn’t breathe, not even when Dean grabbed his shoulders and yelled, “Cas!”

“Not again,” Castiel gasped, and then shocked away from Dean, forcing himself upright. His hands were shaking as he pulled out his phone and pressed the power button, not even realizing that he had turned it off hours ago. He stared in horror as his phone switched on and he was met with dozens upon dozens of phone calls, from his mother and his father and Anna and Charlie and Samandriel, twenty just from Balthazar, text messages rolling in of _Not again please I can’t do this again_ and _Please don’t be dead_ and _Please pick up the phone_ and _Castiel please answer oh god please_. Castiel looked up at the brothers, horrified, to find them watching him, looking worried.

“They told my parents,” Castiel explained, his voice shaking. “It’s been six hours and they _called my parents_.”

“Shit,” Dean said, and then looked at Sam. “Get packing. We’ve gotta move.”

“Stay quiet,” Castiel told the brothers, frantically tapping a number onto his keyboard, his hands still shaking uncontrollably with adrenaline and horror as he brought it to his ear, listening to the monotonous dial tone.

“Michael Novak,” Michael answered, sounding drained, obviously not having looked at the caller identification.

“Michael,” Castiel whispered, “what the hell is _happening_?”

“ _Castiel_?” Michael demanded, horrified, and then cursed, his voice rising to a terrified yell. “ _Castiel, is that you_?”

“Michael, what the _fuck_ is happening?” Castiel demanded again, his voice shaking at the crushing of his chest. “I just turned on my phone and I have a hundred missed calls and text messages from my family praying that I’m not _dead_.”

“Castiel, oh my god,” Michael said, and then yelled something frantic off the line. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , Castiel, I thought you were in the building!”

“What the hell is going on?” Castiel repeated.

“The police station in Monument went up in fucking flames six hours ago,” Michael told him, sounding too shaken to be relieved, sounding too horrified to be happy. “It just _exploded_. There were no survivors and we thought you had to have been inside—where the hell are you?”

“I don’t know the name of the town,” Castiel said, panicking. “The Winchesters mentioned an accomplice, a girl named Ruby, and I was out trying to track her down and I found a trace of her here—I didn’t—I don’t—”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Michael said harshly, properly summarizing the entire situation. “I called Chuck and told him you were dead when we got to the scene and there was no survivors, and your car is out front—I did it again. Oh god, I did it again, didn’t I?”

“Are you still on the scene?” Castiel demanded, noticing the Winchesters watching his conversation cautiously from the doorway, not wanting to look like they were eavesdropping but there was nowhere to go, and Castiel met Dean’s eyes and took a deep breath.

“No,” Michael said. “I’m in Denver. Get here as soon as possible. Call your parents first—fuck, Christ, _shit_ —but get here as soon as possible, Castiel. I’m sorry. Shit. Come to my office as soon as you get here.”

Michael disconnected without saying anything else, Castiel’s survival changing a lot of factors, and Castiel dropped his phone to his side, breathing deeply, feeling exhausted. He looked up at the Winchesters and said, “This situation is entirely fucked.”

“What do you want us to do?” Sam asked him automatically. Castiel paused, trying to organize his disastrous thoughts.

“Just stay in here,” Castiel told them finally, reaching up to run a hand through his hair, a stress response he needed to stop doing or else he would go prematurely bald. He took a deep breath. “I have to do damage control. PTSD has to wait. Okay. I have to call my parents.”

Castiel winced.

“The Bureau says there was no survivors,” Castiel explained to them. “Even you two died in the blast, and I’m not about to correct them. Apparently the news has some inconsistencies, but what else is new—the Bureau isn’t calling it a gas main rupture yet, but they don’t know what else it could be. The main players have left the scene so they have a reason to think it is cut and dry, which is good.”

“Should we leave after you make your call?” Dean asked slowly, obviously not wanting to set him off, but Castiel had sunk into the eerie-calm that he learned to adopt in these situations after the last accident, so he just nodded professionally, calmly, typing a familiar number into his phone with one hand.

“I need to get back to Denver,” Castiel said, walking to the door, and announced when he was barely out of the doorway, “and you’re both coming with me. I have questions, but first I have to run damage control.”

Castiel closed the motel door behind him and sink down at the curb as he pressed the call through, listening to it ring a handful of times, wondering what would happen if there wasn’t an answer.

His mother answered on the fifth ring with a shaky, “Hello?”

She must have looked at the identification. She probably thought it was an agent who found the phone, or a stranger that found it blasted into the yard of the nearest house. Castiel felt his heart shatter at the sound of his mother’s quiet devastation, and he had to clear his throat against his emotions.

“Mom,” he choked out, and the other side of the line froze. “Mom, it’s me, I’m alive, it’s okay.”

“Castiel?” she demanded, and then screamed, “ _Castiel?_ ”

“It’s me,” Castiel said with a choked laugh, blinking again an onslaught of tears. When this had happened the last time, he hadn’t spoken to his parents until days after, when he had recovered enough. Hearing the devastation firsthand was a solid kick to the ribcage. “I had my phone off, I am so sorry.”

“Castiel!” his mother shrieked, bursting into sobs. “Oh my god, baby, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he told her. “I wasn’t in the building, Mom, it’s okay. I left to look for an accomplice and I didn’t report that I was leaving—I am so sorry I did this to you again, Mom. I’m so sorry.”

“Castiel?” his father shouted over a line that had obviously been turned to speakerphone, because the sudden increase of motion was a shock to his head, which was already a little woozy because of a dozen hits from demons, and then from the shock of learning he had been declared deceased without a body. “Are you there?”

“Dad,” Castiel said, sounding tortured, and the noises on the other end increased.

“Cassie!” Balthazar yelled over them all. “Cassie, god fucking damn it, don’t do this to us again!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t even know anything had happened,” Castiel pleaded with them, running another hand through his hair. “I—I must have left that building right before the blast. The Winchesters told me they had an accomplice so I took their car so she would think it was safe, but I couldn’t track her down and my phone was off—shit, guys, I’m so sorry.”

“Come home,” his mother sobbed into the phone. “Castiel, you come home right now. We’re all here, all of us, and you’ve got us scared half to death and we thought we would have to _bury_ you, after everything that happened—”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel told them, tortured, and he wondered how many more times he is going to have to apologize to them. “Things are crazy—I have to go back to Denver, I have to figure out what is happening, but I’ll try to get home soon, I promise.”

“Call me as soon as you know when you can leave, Castiel,” his father told him, sounding teary, and the thought of seeing his father broken down nearly caused Castiel to be sick.

“Okay,” Castiel gasped, swallowing hard. “I love you guys, okay? I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

Castiel hung up before he could hear anything else, reaching up and putting a hand over his mouth, shoving his phone back into his pocket, never wanting to see the desperate text messages on it again.

Castiel wondered how many more times he is going to have to lie today as he got to his feet, smoothed down his shirt, and walked back into the motel room.

Dean and Sam were sitting at the table, looking somber, and not looking at each other. They looked up as Castiel entered, fixing his tie casually, and he told them, “We have to go. You can lie low at my apartment while I deal with the Bureau. I’ll make my excuses and, when I do—well, then we’ll figure out a game plan. For now, we just have to get to Denver.”

Dean’s keys were in his hand in a millisecond and he said, “Alright, Cas,” and they all got in the Impala, and they didn’t speak the entire way there.

*

Castiel had Dean park the Impala in his garage unit, which was normally empty for all but a handful of boxes that Castiel didn’t have room for in his apartment and didn’t have the patience to go through, and he sent the Winchesters into his apartment and told them to make themselves at home, that he will be back as soon as he could, and he slipped them his cell phone number before he started running, sprinting up the street, and he made it to the FBI field office in about ten minutes.

Castiel burst through the doors of Michael’s office without knocking, without slowing down one step of the way. Michael vaulted to his feet, surprised by the intrusion, and Gabriel, who had been sitting across from him, appeared on his feet only seconds after.

Castiel panted heavily as he asked, “What’s . . . happened?”

“Shit, Castiel,” Gabriel said, and then laughed with a hysterical sound to it. “I thought we’d lost your rugged charm for a few hours there. Good to have you back and smelling as lovely as you normally do.”

Castiel somehow mustered the strength to roll his eyes.

“We were about to leave for the hospital,” Michael informed Castiel, crossing the room to clap him hard on the shoulder, looking properly relieved and pleased to see him, squeezing his shoulder. Castiel took a deep breath and pushed it out, feeling a little less like his chest was on fire.

“Hospital?” Castiel asked.

Gabriel and Michael looked at each other in surprise before Michael told him, “Yes—to see Naomi.”

Castiel froze, looking at them, and whispered, trying desperately to hide his horror, “Naomi is still alive?”

“She wasn’t in the building,” Michael assured him, obviously assuming his horror would be because Castiel couldn’t bare to think she had practically burned alive, and not over the simply fact that _Naomi was alive_. “She was a couple of blocks away, pretty torn up. She claims she can’t remember anything—she asked where you were. She was distraught when we thought you were dead.”

Castiel blinked, trying to clear away all signs of horror. “Wow,” Castiel said neutrally. “Okay. This is a lot of things happening at once. Can I come with you to the hospital?”

“Of course,” Michael said, and then clapped his on the shoulder again. “She’s been asking for you ever since we gave her the good news, anyway.”

Castiel felt like he was underwater.

He watched everything through the sound of his heart beating frantically in his ears, tagging along shakily behind Gabriel and Michael, but they assumed that his behavior was because of the horrific ordeal he had been through, and not the one he was about to have. Castiel barely even noticed when they were in the car, or when they got out of the car—reality didn’t hit him in the face until they were leading him to Naomi’s room, and it took everything in him not to lose consciousness because there were only a few ways that this could happen, and most of them would have to do with her knowing too much.

Right outside of her room, Castiel’s phone went off with a text message, and he gestured for Gabriel and Michael to go ahead so he could answer it. Castiel pulled up a message from an unknown number, turning out to be Sam, telling him it was his number and to let them know if they needed him.

Castiel paused, considering deleting the message, but he knew he was guilty the moment he walked through the hospital doorway anyway, so instead he replied: _There has been a complication._ _If you don’t hear from me in twenty minutes, take off._

Castiel put his phone in his pocket, took a deep breath, and then walked through the doorway.

Naomi’s eyes met his immediately. They stared at each other for a long moment, both of their gazes guarded.

And then, she smiled.

“Castiel,” she said, her voice ragged and exhausted. “It’s so good to see you’re alright.”

“How are you doing?” Castiel asked her formally, moving to stand next to Gabriel and Michael around the foot of her bed. “Not too bad off, I see.”

“Mostly a concussion,” she told him, shrugging weakly, but he could see the stiff bandages from long wounds on her arms and legs, and not even knowing how many may be on her torso. “They’re keeping me overnight just in case. Any luck?”

“With what?” he asked, confused.

She gave him a pointed look. A shock rolled through his body when he realized what she was trying to do.

“I tracked Ruby to a motel outside of Monument, but the trail stopped there,” he told her slowly, eyeing her cautiously. “It looked like she had cleared out of the room when she found out the brothers had been caught, and I tried to follow her, but then I turned on my phone and found out I missed all the fun.”

Naomi’s lip pulled into a tell only Castiel knew. And he knew that she knew.

His heart sunk.

“Do you mind if I speak to Naomi alone?” Castiel asked Michael and Gabriel, giving them pointed looks he was hoping they would entirely misinterpret, and they did indeed. Michael’s eyebrows went up in surprise and Gabriel made a choking sound before obliging, prodding Michael in front of him with his eyes. They closed the door behind them, leaving them alone and with privacy, and they stared at each other for a long, long time.

And then Naomi said, “I remember everything.”

“I figured you did,” Castiel said slowly, walking over to her bedside until he could sit down in the chair calmly, but he felt like he was about to burn the same way he should have in that building. “I’m just not entirely sure what happened from you leaving the station to ending up blocks away from it.”

“That smoke, the—the demon,” Naomi admitted reluctantly, “it overtook me, and it controlled me. I—that big attack on the station, on the Winchesters, it was the one controlling the forces. I’m injured only because I was attacked by another demon as she tried to get into the station, and it stepped forward and tried to stop her.”

“Ruby,” Castiel whispered, surprised.

Naomi shot him a look and said, “Sure. Ruby. Let’s give monsters names.”

Castiel ignored her bitterness and asked, “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to tell them everything,” Naomi said, and then winced. “Not everything—as far as I am concerned, the demons and the attack never happened. But I’m still going to tell them the truth, because you let the Winchesters escape. I _will_ tell them that, and I will let them fill in the rest.”

Castiel’s eyes closed. He knew Naomi loved him, but he also knew she wouldn’t lie for him, no matter how much she cared about him. The job was always first, and Naomi would do absolutely nothing to risk hers. But, still, somehow, it felt like a betrayal.

“You know why I had to do it, don’t you?” he whispered, looking into her eyes, begging her to see. “You understand now why it was worth it?”

Naomi, a warrior, looked at Castiel, and she started to cry.

“I understand,” she whispered, “but I’m not going to lie for you. I’ve already lied enough.”

“Tell them that it was me,” Castiel told her, despaired, closing his eyes as he signed his death certificate. “Tell them—I have been helping the Winchesters since the beginning, that I am the one that has been helping them escape custody all of those times. Tell them that we weren’t supposed to catch them in Monument, and that I killed Raphael and the Sheriff and the rest of them, that I was going to kill you but couldn’t do it, so I dumped you and then blew the building. Tell them that I threatened you not to tell them anything until after I got here, and that, just now, I am forcing you to give me five more hours, or I’ll send someone to kill you. Okay? Tell them that. They won’t blame you for anything, Naomi, it’s going to be okay.”

“Castiel,” she whispered, horrified, “they are going to _hunt_ you.”

“Dead or alive,” Castiel joked weakly, and then shook his head. “It’s okay, Naomi. Do that for me, okay? Give me five hours, and then call Michael and Gabriel in tears and tell them what I just told you, all of it. Don’t worry about me. I know how to disappear.”

“Your family?” Naomi asked mournfully, and Castiel flinched.

“I’m doing what I have to,” Castiel affirmed, and then leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. She closed her eyes, trembling. “I am sorry about everything that has happened. I am so, so sorry. I forgive you for what you have to do.”

Naomi looked up at him and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“I am, too,” he said, and then smiled weakly, getting to his feet. He reached out and squeezed her hand tightly, just once, before letting it go. “Thank you for saving me, Naomi. This time, and last.”

She was crying when she watched him go. Castiel wondered if he could have ever learned to love her, or if they had always been destined to end up right here, with Castiel running off with Winchesters, and Naomi left behind so entirely alone.

Castiel texted Sam: _Don’t answer the door unless it’s me. If it’s anyone else, slip out the window and take off. I’m heading back as soon as possible._

Michael and Gabriel were waiting for him by the entrance of the hospital and, thankfully, neither of them asked. Michael didn’t even blink when Castiel gave his excuses, saying that he needed to get back to Lawrence, and they dropped him off at his apartment complex on their way back to the field office. Castiel almost started laughing when he realized that two men who wanted the Winchesters behind bars were obliviously sitting in a car not even a hundred yards away from the door they were waiting behind.

Castiel waited for them to drive away before moving to his doorway, up the stairs and knocking loudly, saying, “It’s me. Open the door.”

Dean tugged open the door, looking frenzied. “What’s going on?” he demanded the second Castiel closed the door behind him, slumping back to lean on it for a moment. Castiel looked at the brothers for a moment, looking at them and wondering if this was worth it, and then figured that it was too late to wonder about that now.

“My partner survived,” Castiel explained to them, and surprised covered their faces. “The demon running the attack on the station was controlling her, and didn’t go in with the troops. She knows everything. I thought she was going to give me away when I went with my boss and my uncle to see her in the hospital, but she met with me privately. We have five hours, and then she’s going to tell them that I helped you escape.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Dean told Castiel, sounding terrified.

“I’ve made my choices,” Castiel assured Dean, smiling at him, and then looked between the brothers. “We have to get moving. But, first, I have to get rid of your case files—it has all the information the Bureau will ever need to track you two.”

Castiel walked to his bedroom, and the brothers watched him throw the door open—and then froze.

“What the fuck, Cas?” Dean demanded, looking, wide-eyed, at the map on the wall. Castiel hurriedly gathered case files from beside his bed, piling them on the ground as he groped underneath of the bed for suitcases and duffle bags, shoving them into one of the bags. Castiel looked up to find the brothers both hovering at the map, looking both awed and disturbed.

“You’ve literally tracked us almost everywhere,” Sam noticed, startled. “How did you know about that time in Lawrence?”

“My sister Charlie passed by you two on her bike in front of your old house,” Castiel told them, and then laughed and rolled his eyes. “She nearly crashed it, she was so surprised. She called me immediately, and I interviewed the woman who lives there now a couple of weeks afterward.”

“You could have closed in on us at any time in the last year,” Dean noticed, turning to look at Castiel. “Why didn’t you?”

“I told you,” Castiel said, grabbing for more case files. “I didn’t want to. I wanted you to get away.”

“Cas,” Sam said, sounding shell-shocked, “how much do you know about this place?”

He pointed to a pin in South Dakota. Dean’s eyes fell on the location, and they widened.

It was all the confirmation Castiel needed to say, “I had a feeling that was where you two went.” Castiel finished with the case files in his closet and grabbed up the duffle, grunting at its weight. “Singer Auto and Salvage. Towed your car after the accident. Seemed weird that a tow truck would go so far out of his way unless he knew you.”

“Well, that’s probably where we’re gonna have to go from here,” Dean deadpanned, blinking at the map. “We can go there while we wait for all of this to blow over.”

Castiel walked up next to them and ripped the map off the wall.

Dean and Sam watched Castiel roughly ball up years of his work, years of his obsession, and they watched him make sure he had all of the pieces, all of the locations, and he shoved it into the duffle with everything else. Dean and Sam seemed to get it because they started pulling out the push-pins, throwing them at the other side of the room while Castiel grabbed handfuls of his clothes from his closet, shoving them into his suitcase, mentally keeping track of exactly how much time had passed since Naomi had given them five hours.

They only had four and a half left.

Castiel shoved his extra handguns and his few meager pictures—him holding an infant Rachel, him and his siblings, his parents and the twins, Balthazar and Samandriel with a table littered with shot glasses and a camera catching the moment less than thirty seconds before Samandriel threw up all over the eldest Novak brother—into the suitcase, zipping it quickly. He cast another look around the place before he looked at the Winchesters. Dean was holding the case files duffle in his hand, looking like he had a million and one questions.

“Okay, that’s everything they can use against us,” Castiel said, and then nodded. “We need to get out of here and, when we do, burn rubber and don’t get pulled over for speeding. Eventually, when we are far enough away, we’re going to have to pull over and burn that bag.”

“Are you sure about all this?” Sam asked him, and Castiel rolled his eyes.

“It is entirely too late for that,” Castiel told him, moving for the door. “Seeing as I was already considering cutting all ties here and taking off in your muscle car, the practical answer is yes. Although the development of my inevitable Most Wanted charge is not entirely desirable, this was what I agreed on. You asked if I wanted to come with you, and I said yes. And, now, you’re leaving, and I’m coming with you—even if the circumstances could have been better.”

Castiel opened the door for the brothers and let them wander through, thinking that he was losing his mind, knowing that he had already lost it long ago, and Castiel thought that this felt like the obsession, but it was so much more crazed. It was wilder. It was real life, and it was like taking a shot of ecstasy straight into his heart.

Castiel took one last look at the apartment, saying his silent goodbyes as he checked for nothing forgotten, before he closed and locked the door behind them, slipping the key overtop of the door jam.

He turned to the brothers and said, blatantly, “I’m not leaving my life for you. I would have had to leave whether you were here or not, because Naomi would have turned my involvement in. So, really, it’s better that you’re here so I wouldn’t have to waste the time to track you down.”

Castiel smiled weakly, and they didn’t question it again.

When the Impala pulled out his apartment complex, they had four hours and fifteen minutes left. Castiel texted Michael to say he was on his way to Lawrence, and Michael answered with another apology, and then Castiel switched his phone off. Dean turned the music up loud enough to drown out all of the thoughts in their heads, and, for one of the first times in his life, Castiel was okay with not having to think.

Castiel left behind the city of Denver with Dean and Sam Winchester, and he couldn’t help but to think that it had been the singularly strangest twenty-four hours of his entire life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have recovered from my minor concussion! Yay! Haha here's a new chapter, and only a couple of days late!
> 
> My Tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com
> 
> xo Kay


	13. Grim Goodbye

When the countdown for Naomi’s promise hit all zeroes, Castiel asked Dean to pull over the car at the nearest secluded location, telling him that they were far enough away, and that they needed to burn the files now. It took another half hour for Dean to find a good enough spot for them to be stuck at until they were sure it had all burned.

They had stopped somewhere on the edge of where Colorado, Kansas, and Nebraska meet. The Winchesters had seemed to become accustomed to him over their journey—they didn’t even seem too consumed by guilt anymore, or at least they weren’t awkward and uneasy with it, and for that Castiel was thankful. He’d felt smothered by the atmosphere they had been giving off, blaming themselves for this, blaming their world for this—and, while they wouldn’t be entirely off the mark, Castiel knew what he was doing. In fact, for one of the first times in his entire life since the Winchesters exited stage right, Castiel felt like he knew what he was doing. He felt like what he was doing was the right choice.

It was his choice. And he would see it through to the end.

And, as Dean pulled Castiel’s duffle of files and maps and everything that he had dictated years and years to obsessing over out of the trunk of the Impala, Castiel watched him move and knew that he would stick by these brothers, no matter what it took, no matter how long he had to stand by their side.

No matter how much he would suffer in silence, falling in love again with Dean a little bit more every single minute, every shared moment—he would stay.

Castiel knew his choices. And he chose Dean.

He looked away from Dean, the sight of him burning like he was looking into the sun, and tried to control his heartbeat as he wandered over to where Sam was setting up a makeshift fire pit out of whatever he could find. Castiel scooped up a handful of twigs and added them in, coating it all with leaves, and he felt Sam’s eyes on him as Dean thundered over, seeming to step on most every twig or branch on his way, silently cursing when one tripped him up. Castiel, sensing his gaze, didn’t even bother to look up.

“What’s on your mind, Sam?” he asked, continuing to add whatever he could to the pile, scooping dirt and sand around it as a makeshift barrier. Sam didn’t even seem surprised that Castiel knew he was watching, shifting to stand a little straighter like he was used to using his height as intimidation.

“You really want to do this?” Sam asked, skeptically, and then shook his head as if physically dismissing that question from the conversation. “I mean, if circumstances were different, would you still be doing this? This life, Cas—it’s not a good one. People die, and it’s impossible to stop it. It never turns out the way we want it.”

Castiel eyed him for a moment, a sinking feeling in his chest, before he observed, “You keep asking me that question, and implying that. What’s happening?”

Sam’s face suddenly cleared of all emotion, as if realizing he let something slip. He said, “Nothing,” but his words carried a weight that made the word sound something closer to, “Something.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes, considering what question to ask next, but their time was up—Dean strode over to them with the duffle bag, seemingly done with letting them have time to have a heart-to-heart or whatever he must have expected, before he unceremoniously upended the duffle and let all of the papers spill in every direction on their little fire pit.

“That all?” Dean asked, turning to Castiel with eyebrows raised, and Castiel nodded. He glanced down at his watch, almost anxious, wondering when Naomi would set it all into motion and if she already had, before he dug into his pocket, and pulled out his phone.

“Of that,” Castiel replied, turning the phone around anxiously in his hands. Dean’s gaze wandered down to watch his movements for a second, as if reading them, before his eyes cut back up to his face. His eyes crinkled in the corner in a frown that barely showed on his lips, and Castiel looked away before he could keep noticing unattainable things. “They’ll never believe it unless it comes from me.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Dean tried to tell him, but they both knew it was no use. Castiel stopped moving his hands, gripping the phone tight, and just shrugged in a way that would convince absolutely no one.

“I think I do,” he said. “If not for them, for me.”

And Dean didn’t really have much to say about that. He glanced at Sam before reached into his jacket pocket and pulling out a silver lighter, handing it to Castiel without a word. Castiel took it and weighed it in his hand—it was heavier than it looked, and was decorated with a worn design that showed that Dean or his father must have owned it for a long time—before he flipped it open, flicking the flame into existence at the same moment.

Castiel picked up one of the files carefully and held the corner to the flame. The second he knew it took, he breathed in, and then threw it into the pit.

The flames grew slowly, gradually, and Castiel knew it wouldn’t take too long for it all to catch, for work he’s obsessed over to dissolve into ash in a manner of twenty minutes or less. Castiel handed the lighter back to Dean soundlessly, and then wandered off, clutching his cell phone hard.

It was becoming real. He didn’t know what he thought it was before—like a game, or a puzzle—but this was reality. There was no going back from this point, and he was beginning to better understand the Winchesters’ reluctance to drag him into this, because they knew better than anyone that they would soon be past the point of no return for Castiel.

But it was too late. In choosing to fight with the Winchesters in Monument, he had made his choice. By choosing to go with them, he had escaped an explosion that would have killed him. By returning to Denver and being unable and unwilling to convince Naomi to take his side, Castiel was set up for this destiny whether he liked it or not.

He flipped open his phone, and clicked through the contacts, landing on one of the first ones listed. He took a deep breath, just to center himself, just in hopes to relieve the ache in his chest, and he pressed the call button.

It rang twice before Balthazar answered.

“Hey, Cassie,” he greeted happily, sounding as though he’d had a couple of drinks. Castiel understood—for them, their day had been long, and it had been horrible. And then there was a brief reprieve where they thought it was all over, but they were wrong, and Castiel almost hated himself for having to do this. He hated that he had to have closure, as much as he could, even though he knew what he had decided on would make their worlds never be the same ever again.

Castiel took another breath and said, “Balthazar.”

Castiel’s older brother had been one of his best friends throughout his entire life. He had been the one he shared a room with for so long, and he and Balthazar used to do everything together when Castiel wasn’t with the Winchesters. Balthazar was the one there for Castiel after the fire, and he was the one that made sure he would be okay after it. He was the voice of reason, and he was Castiel’s conscience, despite that he himself was the one that made most of the worst choices.

Balthazar, of all of his siblings, knew him the best, and trusted him the most. And Castiel knew, from just hearing that one word, Balthazar would automatically know something was horribly, horribly wrong.

He did. Castiel practically felt the tension crackle through the lines, practically felt his older brother migrate away from their family, outside of prying ears. Balthazar waited a full ten seconds, the sound of a closing door behind him heard even on Castiel’s end of the line, before he demanded, “What’s wrong?”

“A lot,” Castiel said, because that was easier than trying to explain, and he looked down like Balthazar could see him, like Castiel didn’t want him to see his face. “I’ve done something—more than one something—and it’s bad, Balthazar, it’s really bad. I didn’t mean—I didn’t want—”

Castiel didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how the hell to confess to something he only wanted people to think he did. He had no fucking idea how he was going to tell Balthazar that he would never see any of them again, and that he was sorry.

Castiel reached up and rubbed his face, and he muttered into the phone, “Has Michael contacted any of you?”

“No,” Balthazar said, confused. “I don’t understand—did something happen? Is everything alright?”

Castiel didn’t know how to answer that. “Michael is going to come to Lawrence, or he’s going to call,” Castiel began slowly, “and he’s going to say some things, Balth. I just—I wanted to be the one to tell you that they’re all true. Everything he’s going to say is true.”

“Castiel, what in the hell is going on?” Balthazar demanded, sounding worried and sounding panicked. “Where are you?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel answered honestly. “I’m pretty far away.”

“Are you coming home?”

“I can never go home,” Castiel told him, tortured. His voice broke. That alone seemed to break Balthazar.

“Castiel, I don’t understand,” he said again, sounding more and more frenzied. “What is going on? What are you talking about, with Michael? Is this something to do with work? What do you _mean_ , you can’t come home?”

It was too many questions that Castiel didn’t know how to answer. He bit his lip, hard, hoping the shot of pain would help him think a little more clearly.

“Michael is going to come by or call soon,” he repeated slowly, voice shaking just a little bit, “and I just wanted you to know that everything he’s going to say to you, no matter how horrible, is true. I’m confessing to all of it. And I—I want you to know that you’ll never find me. I’m going to disappear, and I can never go home, and I’ll never be caught. And I’m sorry, Balthazar, _fuck_ am I sorry. Tell Mom and Dad, and everyone, that I love them and I am so sorry for doing this to you, but I’m not sorry about doing the rest of it at all.”

“What have you done?” Balthazar demanded, voice hard and scared, and it raised to a shout when he continued, “Castiel, what’s happened? What have you done?”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispered, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry, I really am. Goodbye, Balthazar.”

“Castiel!” he heard his brother cry desperately before Castiel hung up the phone, holding down on the end button to turn the phone off entirely.

Castiel felt like he was swallowing barbed wire as he collected himself for one last moment before turning back and moving back to where the Winchesters were still standing, watching over the fire that was destroying every peace of evidence that would let the FBI find them, and they turned to look at him as Castiel approached. He didn’t offer much of a reaction, keeping his face stony as he ripped open the back of his cell phone, dropping the SIM card into the fire first, and then the battery, and then the shell of the phone. He took a step back and took a deep breath, watching it burn.

Nothing moved but the crackling fire for a minute, the sound of a battery overheating and melting sizzling in the air, until he did. Castiel felt rather than heard Dean move closer, his presence next to him as stifling as it was comforting. Castiel felt his breath catch in the back of his throat when he felt the ghost of skin on his wrist, the backs of fingers, and his skin felt alive like a live wire, knowing it was Dean’s. It was only seconds after that, seconds to recover, before Dean’s hand moved to his forearm and squeezed, a reassuring touch. Castiel looked up, and looked right at Dean.

Dean tilted his head just slightly to the side in a silent question, not moving his hand from Castiel’s arm. Castiel nodded nearly unperceptively, offering Dean the faintest twitch of a smile, in response. Dean’s eyebrows pulled together, not seeming to believe his assurance for a second but not pressing the issue, seeming willing to let the wound fester until Castiel was willing to put on a Band-Aid, a coping method that Castiel thought it likely that the both of them still practiced. Dean gave one last squeeze before he dropped his hand, taking the warmth with him, and Castiel felt himself already missing it fiercely. He looked back toward the flames.

They waited there another ten minutes, filled with silence of cracking wood and sizzling paper, before they figured it was good enough, without saying it out loud. Sam moved first, moving forward to check the paper, and nodding to Castiel to say that it was as good as it was going to get. Dean moved next, reaching into one of his jacket pockets and pulling out a half-drunk water bottle, one that he must have grabbed from the trunk, and upturned it on the wavering flames, smothering them. Castiel picked up the best twig he could find and knelt beside the fire, prodding papers around and evaluating what shape they were in. When he was sure that it was all unrecoverable, sure that even if they tracked his cell phone here and found the rubble, they wouldn’t find anything else other than the shreds of life that Castiel was leaving behind, he nodded and stood, throwing the stick elsewhere.

“Alright,” Dean said, picking up the empty duffle and swinging it over his shoulder anyway, turning to walk backward and look at Castiel and Sam. He raised his eyebrows. “Breakfast?”

“Coffee,” Castiel replied automatically, like a Pavlovian response, and Sam laughed, grinning.

“I’m with Cas,” Sam agreed, the two of them following behind Dean to the Impala. He threw the empty bag into the trunk without mentioning it, and all of them pretended like it didn’t exist as they moved for their normal seats in the Impala, Sam wincing as he took his seat before saying, “Nowhere with pig ’n a poke, alright?”

Dean laughed like he was caught off guard before grimacing. “Yeah, too soon.”

“Do I want to know?” Castiel asked cautiously from the backseat, at once wanting to be invited into the world of the Winchesters and wanting to give them a respectful amount of space. As if on cue, they both turned to look at each other, looking both exhausted and like they were about ready to grin.

“We have a hell of a lot to tell you, Cas,” Dean told him, grinning at him through the rearview mirror, before he threw the Impala in drive, and they flew down the road with nothing tethering them there but the roar of the engine, and the crooning of rock ’n roll on the radio.

~*~

“So you’re trying to tell me that all of the stories are true,” Castiel said, looking between the brothers. They were seated on the opposite side of the booth, the bulk of them making it appear as though the seating arrangements were a little cramped. Sam was definitely larger in the shoulders than he had looked like he would be at eleven. His hands were so big that the coffee cup in between his palms practically looked child size.

“Yup,” Dean replied in response to Castiel’s last comment, finally coming up for air from the pancakes he had ordered. He gave Castiel a big cheeky grin. “Turns out when Dad would take off for weeks at a time, it was to hunt the Big Bad Wolf. Who knew?”

Of all the things they had all expected John Winchester would be getting into when he disappeared, hunting monsters was definitely not even on the list. Castiel nodded slowly in agreement, reaching up and taking another sip of coffee as he considered what to ask next.

“What have you two come into contact with?”

“Been doing this for a while now,” Dean replied thoughtfully, tapping his fork against the plate. “Fair share of things. Vampires, werewolves, demons, ghosts. We’ve already told you about those.”

“Yes, but you certainly haven’t told me _everything_.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, and Dean took another large bite of pancake. Castiel leaned back in his seat, looking between the brothers, seeing their body language and reading in between the lines.

“What killed your dad?” Castiel asked.

“Demon,” Sam replied, taking over. “Azazel. Same one that killed our mom. Used to call him Yellow Eyes.”

Castiel looked up sharply, a tell. Dean immediately noticed, always the only one who did.

“What was that?” Dean asked once he had swallowed, staring at Castiel intensely. Castiel threw a mask onto his face, showing nothing, and shook his head. Dean continued to stare, gaze turning suspicious. Castiel stared him down for a minute, a silent challenge, before turning back to Sam.

“The hospital said your father died of a heart attack,” Castiel prompted him, so curious, almost to the point of desperation. He was in an in-between, in between the life he led without knowing what he knows now and the life he will live now that he does know. Castiel wasn’t the kind of person that was content without knowledge.

“That’s what they’re calling it, yeah,” Sam told him slowly, the wound of their father’s death probably still a little raw. Dean just kept eating, his eyebrows pulled together, thinking. “Dean was—he was in a coma, and he was going fast. There were points where I was completely sure he was going to die. And then, suddenly, he recovered. Just woke up, even though a reaper was right on his tail. We didn’t know why, just figured that Dean must have done something in his comatose state, where he was still a spirit or something. But then Dad started acting weird, and then, boom—dropped dead, and the only weapon that could kill a demon, the same one he had on his person? Gone. It was too convenient. It—Dad made a deal with the Yellow Eyed Demon. Dean’s life, for his and the Colt.”

Dean’s scowl added a million layers to the conversation. Sam’s flinch added even more.

Castiel was an investigator, and he was a damn good one. He knew when there was something hidden just under the surface. And, with the right tools, the right wording, he could stir it up.

“He dealt with the devil?” Castiel asked, a little rhetorically. “That can happen? Humans making deals with demons, that’s a thing?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, suddenly cautious, his eyes darting to glance at Dean, who said nothing. “It’s kind of like crossroad deals. You know that song, Crossroad Blues?”

Castiel shook his head.

“Oh, well, basically, you go to a crossroads and bury a cigar box or something filled with certain ingredients, and you summon a crossroads demon. They’ll give you anything you ask for, in exchange for your soul. Usually, they give you ten years. Dad, meanwhile, got maybe a half hour.”

There was a bitter, sad edge to Sam’s voice that Castiel could tell did not belong to his grief for his father. Dean’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t say anything, staring a hole in his syrupy plate.

Castiel looked between them for a long, long moment before he casually asked, “How long did Dean get?”

Dean dropped the fork he was still holding with a clatter. Sam’s hands tightened so hard that Castiel almost expected the mug to shatter.

“What?” Sam demanded through frozen lips. Dean just stared at him, face blank.

“For Sam?” Castiel asked Dean, noticed the slight tick at the corner of his eye, and nodded. Castiel’s expression remained cool and calm, but his stomach was suddenly in an inferno. He felt like he was going to be sick. Castiel didn’t know enough about their world to know for sure, but a demon deal didn’t sound like a pretty thing. Having a demon come calling, and having them take your soul once time ran out? That couldn’t possibly go well, that couldn’t possibly be worth it. Or maybe it was. Castiel didn’t know. All he knew was the tension in the Winchesters’ shoulders, pervading into the air until Castiel could cut it with a knife.

Castiel had thought a million things could happen when he joined the Winchesters’ party. Somehow, he felt sick at the thought that death could be one of them, especially when it came to the one person Castiel would do anything to save.

He supposed he should have known it would never be that simple. It never is.

“There’s a tension here,” Castiel explained when they said nothing, gesturing loosely to the brothers in general, as if he could point to the tension like a tangible object. “You two can barely look at each other. It’s a different dynamic than the way it was back in—Arkansas, right? Something is off about it. Not to mention the tells when you started discussing demons, and when I started asking about the demon deals.”

“You read people,” Sam stated simply, not entirely relaxing. Castiel smiled a little sheepishly.

“Yes. I learned at Princeton, when I was studying criminal justice.”

“You went to Princeton?” Dean demanded, surprised, momentarily distracted. Castiel met his eyes. “That’s where you wanted to go. Back in high school.”

“Yeah,” Castiel responded, smiling in surprise that Dean remembered little things the same way that Castiel did. It was a little reassuring. “Got a full academic scholarship. Also got away from my parents.”

Dean looked like he wanted to ask, but he was silenced when Castiel shook his head, giving them both a look that told them he hadn’t forgotten about the previous topic. Dean and Sam glanced at each other, silently communicated, but quickly looked away.

“Fine,” Dean said, holding his hands up. “It’s a long story, but—Sam died, and I couldn’t deal. So I went to a crossroads and made an offer. Needless to say, the demon took it.”

Castiel felt nauseous. It felt like they were talking about a fragile, cancerous illness, the Achilles heel that would fell Dean Winchester where he stands at any time. Castiel didn’t even realize he was clutching at his coffee mug until his knuckles started straining, and he relaxed his grip.

“How long do you have?” Castiel didn’t know how his voice managed to stay steady.

Dean’s mouth hooked up into a bitter smile. “Now? Couple months. Three, three and a half? Haven’t had much time to count.”

“And you’re just going to give up?” His tone was incredulous. That wasn’t the spirit of the Dean Winchester he had known. It wasn’t even the spirit of the Dean Winchester he had hunted.

Dean had never given up on anything in his entire life, even if it was something that was needed to let lie. He always kicked up the dust and started a scene if it was the right thing to do. And saving his life—that would be the best of all things.

Dean’s eyes darted around Castiel’s face, like he was trying to get the hang of reading him too, before he drawled, “It’s a long story, Cas. It’s not that simple.”

“Guys,” Sam interrupted, his tone tense. He was staring off to the counter, and his face was flat in the way that shock made people look. Through a frozen jaw, he muttered, “We have a slight problem.”

Castiel and Dean turned to where he was looking and saw that problem very clearly—and that problem was that Castiel’s face was plastered on the television. The sound was off, but the picture of Castiel’s was the main subject, his name written underneath. Written above it, in big red letters, was the word, “WANTED”.

“Word’s out,” Dean announced, reaching into his wallet and throwing a couple of bills onto the table. “Time to go.”

He immediately got up from the booth, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed the bulletin that was still on the screen, if smaller, warning the nation about a dangerous fugitive on the loose. There was only one other customer, who was obliviously digging into their meal, and one waitress who was writing something down on a pad of paper next to a cash register. Castiel shoved out of the booth, letting his head hang as he started for the door first, a queasy feeling in his stomach.

He was wanted. It was official. His family would know by now—they would know everything. About how he disappeared with the Winchesters, how he had confessed to murders he hadn’t actually committed. They wouldn’t believe it at first, but maybe they would find evidence. Days where Castiel couldn’t be heard from, in his times of isolation, that matched with other murders, maybe more local ones. Maybe they would start piling on more bodies, more suspicions. Maybe his colleagues would whisper amongst themselves, _I knew he was a weird one_. Maybe some of them wouldn’t be able to believe it at all, but they would also have no reason not to.

It was almost funny, how one life touched another, influenced another. Castiel almost wondered what his legacy on those lives would be.

He figured it didn’t really matter.

Sam and Dean met him at the Impala less than a minute later, none of them needing to say a word as they got in and pulled away, entirely more aware of the past nipping at their heels. Castiel was sure that pictures of the Winchesters might have flashed across the street right after his own.

It was until another several minutes of nothing but humming rock music that Castiel reminded them, “We’re not finished talking about it.”

“Sure thing, Cas,” Dean told him, so exhausted that Castiel knew he shouldn’t ask now and stored the reminder away for later. Castiel looked at the back of Dean’s head, already raw to the idea of Dean being dead in a few months even though he still barely knew the men in the front seats, until, eventually, he ripped his eyes away and back to the scenery passing by outside.

It took another several hours but, eventually, they made it to Sioux Falls.

~*~

“Huh,” was the first word out of Castiel’s mouth.

Sam laughed. “That it? That’s your only opinion?”

“It is a junk yard,” Castiel said, but he wasn’t sure if he meant it as explanation for his behavior or just simply as an observation. Even so, Dean clapped his shoulder from behind as he passed, and Castiel’s eyes immediately flashed back to him.

“Great observation skills,” Dean was remarking sarcastically. “FBI teach you that?”

“Definitely the Ivy League,” Castiel played along, tugging his duffle further up his shoulder. “So this is where you go, when you drop off the map?”

“Yeah,” Sam replied as Dean instead headed off toward the door, knocking loudly. Sam grabbed his own duffle and closed the trunk. “Bobby’s an old friend of our dad’s. He even babysat us a couple of times, in the early days when Dad’s hunts were too dangerous for us.”

Sam and Castiel were halfway up the front walk when the door swung open, and a slightly shorter man with a trucker hat, graying beard, and a scowl was standing in the doorway, his eyes narrowed on Dean.

“There better be a good reason why your ugly mugs’re on the 10 o’clock news,” the man grunted, not looking too pleased. Dean just rolled his eyes at him and shouldered his way inside.

The man’s eyes cut to Castiel and Sam, who were finally reaching the porch. His eyes stopped on Castiel, and narrowed into slits.

“This better not be who I think it is,” Bobby said plainly, his tone speaking volumes of ass-kicking that will occur at a positive answer to his obviously rhetorical statement. Sam didn’t offer an explanation, just grabbed Castiel’s shoulder and forced him through the doorway, like he knew Castiel would probably freeze like a Medusa victim under the older man’s steely stare.

Dean was already in the kitchen, rooting around the fridge. He pulled out two beers and offered one to Castiel, who shook his head, so he handed it to Sam instead. He cracked his open as the man, obviously Bobby, wandered into the room, still staring at Castiel like he was a ticking time bomb that was about to go off. Sam yawned as he crossed into a living room and slumped on a couch, stretching.

Bobby stood staring at Castiel with his arms crossed. Castiel somehow ended up standing there like he was lost, glancing around the room for possible ideas for escape.

Dean, who was leaning against the counter and gazing at them over his beer bottle, groaned as he let the bottle settle onto the counter.

“Cut it out, Bobby,” Dean told him, raising his eyebrows. “Cas got us out of a sticky situation and needed a place to run off to. We’re gonna teach him how to hunt. Don’t make that face at me.”

The face that Dean was referring to was a murderous glare.

“So you brought ’im _here_?” he demanded.

“You said so yourself that we’re all over the news. Where the hell else were we supposed to go? Bermuda?”

“At least the weather woulda been nicer,” Bobby commented, and Castiel was almost surprised to see the hint of a smile tugging at the older man’s face. “And you wouldn’t be stealin’ my beer an’ raidin’ my fridge.”

Dean rolled his eyes.

Bobby turned to Castiel, who had the sudden urge to stand a little straighter. “Don’t just stand around, boy,” Bobby barked at him. “What, your legs broken?”

“No, sir,” Castiel replied almost on instinct, blinking slowly in confusion at the sudden attention put on him. Bobby stared at him for a moment before turning his gaze to Dean, raising his eyebrows.

“He always stare like that?” Bobby demanded bluntly. Dean grinned, and Castiel briefly wondered if they were still aware he was in the room or if this was some kind of test of his character. As it was, he just stood silently, staring at them curiously.

“Yeah,” Dean affirmed, shooting a grin at Castiel and laughing when he caught him staring. He strode over and threw an arm around him, nearly shocking Castiel out of his skin, and he used Castiel’s moment of surprise to tug him along as he walked into the living room, past Bobby. Sam looked up from the television and raised an eyebrow. Castiel chose to act as though he didn’t notice the smirk that Sam was barely managing to smother.

Dean all but shoved Castiel into a chair and took the other one across from it, leaning back. Bobby stood in the doorway, eyebrows up but not questioning any further before he turned around and walked into a hallway adjacent, muttering something to himself that sounded both fed up and fond. Dean sent him a grin before turning to face the TV as well, which was turned onto what looked like a terrible sci-fi movie of some nature, and Sam did as well, still looking like he was trying not to smirk at something. Castiel forced himself to settle into the cushions, taking a deep breath and letting it out.

It was easy to breathe here. No matter what was looming over his head, it was easy to breathe, and Castiel hadn’t felt like he was truly flying like this in so, so long.

Castiel settled into the life of Sam and Dean Winchester, and he knew he was there to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com
> 
> xo Kay


	14. New Horizons

Castiel was all too aware that he was a guest in Bobby Singer’s home, but that didn’t stop the insomnia, the anxiety. Castiel’s head barely hit the pillow before he was wide awake, staring up at the ceiling of the living room from the couch as the house quieted into sleepy stillness with nothing but his rampant thoughts and his beating heart to keep him company. He tried to sleep, tried to allow the exhaustion of the past couple of days slide him under the surface, but it didn’t work, and it felt a little closer to drowning.

He wasn’t sure how long he laid there in silence, staring up at the ceiling. But there was only so long that people could allow themselves to go out of their minds.

Castiel pushed himself up to a sitting position, reaching up and running a hand through his hair, a nervous tick. He glanced around the room, the only light coming through the emergency lighting of a back lot of broken cars, the shadows lingering around the room like demons out of sight. Castiel shivered at the thought, letting his eyes close as he buried his head in his hands.

Everything was so surreal.

His life had turned upside down, and he barely had the time to brace himself for impact. This was nothing of what he had ever known before, a danger that had always been at the edge of the frame now being thrust into center stage. And it was a danger that Castiel didn’t really know how to stop. It was a danger that was deadly and, from what he had learned today, would be what claimed Dean in only a few months with no way to stop it.

Castiel leaned his head back, staring up at the ceiling, and took a deep breath.

It was just too much to handle sometimes. He could feel his anxiety clawing at the inside of his skin, inside of his chest. His heart felt like it would beat straight out of his skin, or simply stop beating altogether. His thoughts were a mass of sounds and syllables, a whirlwind that made him dizzy, and his hands were shaking. He felt like he wasn’t part of the normal turn of the earth around the sun, like he had fallen right out of the loop of time. He gripped at the couch to anchor himself, breathed as evenly as he could in an effort to slow down his heart. Castiel kept running his hands through his hair, anything to get his body to step down off of high offensive.

He remembered bright lights and an operating table. He remembered before that, in a dark room and a figure and a gunshot and Naomi screaming his name and blood on his hands and then nothing nothing noth—

Castiel pushed off from the couch, forced himself onto his feet, and stumbled into the room. His knees were shaking so hard that he almost hit the ground, but he managed to keep himself up, forcing himself to walk laps until his heartbeat had slowed, until his hands stopped shaking, until his legs grew steady. He shook his head, hard.

Castiel had learned how to handle his PTSD years ago. But, sometimes, every once in a while, it would come creeping back in. It wasn’t quite so easy to shake the trauma, and the fear of dying that came with it.

Castiel paced into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water he had to awkwardly open cabinet doors and search for, leaning back against the counter as he sipped at it, facing the room. The furniture had been pushed around to give Castiel enough space with the couch, the table pushed up against the television, the desk behind it moved just slightly to the side. The big windows with their safety lights illuminated the space in a soft hue, just enough for him to be able to see into the room.

He looked at the desk, and there was just enough light for him to be able to see a map.

Castiel knew that it was one thing to be a guest in a stranger’s house drinking water in the kitchen, and then an entirely other thing if he would start poking around that stranger’s desk. But he was so tired and couldn’t sleep, and the thought of being able to get another peak into the hunting life was oh-so tempting. Castiel took another long sip of his water, gazing at the desk over the rim of the glass, considering his options.

Bobby and Sam were sleeping upstairs, and he would be able to hear their approach from the squeaking wood. Dean was downstairs in the basement, and Castiel would be able to hear him approach for the same reason. He could take a look at the work and then put it back where he found it, and they would be none the wiser.

He just needed something to do. The temptation of being able to track someone or something, of being able to put together consistencies as well as inconsistencies into a pattern projecting their next move before they even knew it, that form of psychological warfare—it was what Castiel lived for. He’d played chess as a kid, and that had pacified him, but once he had gotten a taste for tracking people and for being good at it, it was an itch that couldn’t be scratched. It was something he was good at, and something he knew he was good at.

Sleep-deprived, his mind felt like he could make it up to them by doing something, even if it was just thinking about it. Even if he didn’t get anything new, adding what he knew into the conversation would help.

Castiel put the glass down, crossed the room, and looked closer at the map.

Bobby, presumably, had a couple of stickers on the map, noting places where whatever he was tracking had been. Castiel’s eyes scanned over the places—all of them were rather small, rather rural, stretching across four different states. Dates weren’t on the map, but Castiel could see a manila folder filled with scattered papers at the corner of the map, and that would probably hold all of the information he needed. Castiel tapped his finger against the corner, considering.

He knew he was passing a couple of barriers when it came to being polite and a houseguest, but Castiel knew that his life as he knew it was over, and it was because of what they were fighting for. They were allies in this, allies in something that Castiel had only begun to grasp, and he wanted to understand. He wanted to start fighting.

Castiel didn’t care anymore about any of the consequences, or about the boundaries. He needed an escape from the memories, from the gnawing need to _do_ something, and this looked like a good distraction.

He flipped the file open, and got to work.

~*~

Dean was the first one up in the morning. He took one step into the living room, froze, and said, “Holy shit.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Castiel explained like that needed explanation, glancing up at him from where he was scribbling into a notebook, holding a pen with a chewed cap between his fingers. He glanced around casually and relented, “I might’ve gone a bit overboard.”

“A bit,” Dean commented dryly, glancing around at every flat surface in the room, which was all covered in something—papers from the files, put in order, or books from the shelves opened the pages where Castiel needed to reference. Dean’s eyebrows were so high that they were practically hovering over his head like a cartoon. “Is this a thing that happens often? Like, should I get used to waking up to rooms looking like a conspiracy theorists’ dream?”

“If Bobby allows me to keep doing this,” Castiel said, “then yes, probably.”

“Fantastic,” Dean replied, but he sounded more humorous now, a grin hooking upwards on his lips. “How do you even know what you’re looking for?”

“Research.” Castiel flipped the piece of paper he was writing on over and continued onto the back. Dean watched him work like it was making him nauseous.

“So you’re tracking these—vamps,” Dean continued, reading some of the papers upside down to figure out the subject of them to begin with. Dean straightened up. “They tend to stick together, and they’re not too nomadic, despite this coven, which keeps moving around. They tend to stick to easy hunting grounds.”

Castiel stood up and walked to the map, which he had tacked up on the other side of the room, a familiar place, before tapping on a point. “They’ll be here,” he stated plainly before returning back to the notebook. Dean stared at him, and then stared at the map, before he took a few steps forward and read the location of where Castiel had indicated. Castiel finished his thought on paper before looking up to find Dean staring at him like he almost wanted to ask.

Castiel figured he knew the question, and he simply said, “PTSD. Anxiety. Insomnia. One probably influences the others, or more than one, but they’re a shitty trifecta. Sometimes I go days without sleeping. Can’t shut my brain off.”

“I know that, sometimes,” Dean told him, sounding sympathetic, before he looked back to the map. “You’re sure that they’re there? How?”

“It’s pattern,” Castiel explained, getting up and tracing the route with his fingertip, before landing on his new anticipated location. “It’s almost game theory, with the way they are moving. There was one disappearance here,” he indicated it on the map, “and here. If they’re going to stop anywhere along that trail, it’ll be here, and it’ll be for a few days. You probably have another day or two until they move, in which case they will probably go north. They don’t seem to be big fans of places with a lot of sunshine and beaches.”

“Well, that part of the myth is true,” Dean relented. He looked at Castiel, his expression something like the oddest mix of impressed and concerned, before he looked away. “I’ll grab Bobby and Sam out of bed, then. Looks like we’ve got our assignment.”

“I could go with you,” Castiel offered, but Dean was already brushing him off before he could finish.

“Bobby’s gonna wanna talk to you some about how the hell you put this together,” Dean told him, gesturing blindly around at what Castiel had spent all night doing to quell his nerves, “and then he’s gonna teach you some other basics. Having you come with us would be a bad idea. Even though you’ve already faced demons and you’ve read up on vampires, you’re still a newbie. We’ll start you off a little easier than this.”

Castiel nodded, conceding because Dean’s reasoning was certainly fair enough, and, even though he had read a couple sections of books about vampires, it certainly didn’t make him a professional on them. Castiel reached down to tidy up the table a little bit, suddenly a little self-conscious of the mess he had made, and he could feel Dean’s eyes on him.

Somehow, he had a feeling that Dean wasn’t staring at him for the reason he should, and Castiel felt the back of his neck heat up in embarrassment.

He straightened and turned back to Dean. Dean looked away and pretended like he hadn’t been staring, and Castiel pretended like he hadn’t noticed, but his neck burned a little hotter.

Dean cleared his throat, almost like he was waiting for it to get awkward and was ready to immediately change the subject before it had the chance, which he did: “So, you doin’ okay?”

“I’m fine,” Castiel answered automatically, a reflex, and Dean sent him a look that clearly stated his disbelief.

“Look, man, I’m not one for heart-to-hearts,” Dean said, and Castiel remembered the times where he and Dean would sit up late into the night doing nothing but talking about themselves and their lives and their futures, and he felt a pang in his chest, “but I know enough to know that this ain’t normal. You holding up alright? I know that, with your family, doing all this—”

Castiel wanted to cut that thought off before the root had the change to dig into the soil, shaking his head hard like he could physically dispel it from his brain. “I’m as fine as I can be. That’s the best answer I’ve got for you.”

Dean nodded, slowly, still unconvinced but knowing now wasn’t the time, before he knocked his knuckles against the doorframe anxiously. “I’ll go get Bobby—I hear Sam movin’ around upstairs. I’m sure they’ll want to see that they’re in the presence of another geek.”

“This is what I did for the FBI, Dean,” Castiel told him, laughing. “You saw how I can track things, can find these patterns. It seems that monsters are the same as people.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, something dark flickering across his eyes, “and people can be the same as monsters, Cas. Remember that. I’ll be right back.”

Dean started up the stairs, yelling the names of those he sought, and Castiel stared at him as he disappeared with a thousand new questions at the tip of his tongue that he would never know how to ask.

~*~

Bobby had definitely been more impressed than insulted that Castiel had gone through his research. Sam had stood in the middle of the room staring open-mouthed around at the papers for a solid two minutes. Dean just leaned sideways in the doorway, smirking as Castiel had to explain his methods of madness to the youngest Winchester and the older man, explaining the way he sees patterns in the simplest way that he could. Even so, he seemed to have Bobby’s head spinning a little, but it was Sam that declared first that it was too early for this, and that he at least wanted to catch breakfast before he and Dean got on the road.

Dean and Sam took off in the Impala about two hours after breakfast with some of Castiel and Bobby’s collected information and a shouted yell to call them from the road with whatever else they had. Castiel hadn’t even realized the implication of their leaving until he was standing in the living room alone with Bobby Singer, who was staring at him through narrowed eyes.

Castiel blinked back at him, not knowing what to say. He must have looked something humorous, because he was sure he saw a smirk curling under the other man’s beard.

“So, Castiel,” Bobby states simply, stressing Castiel’s name in a way in a way that was meant to be nothing other than intimidating (and it worked a little). “Didn’t get much of a chance to talk to you last night. So you’re the fed that’s been huntin’ those boys down for the last few years.”

“Yes,” Castiel responded cautiously, somehow convinced it was a trick question. “That was me. Perhaps not my proudest moment.”

“Dean mentioned you let ’em get away the last year.”

There were definitely implications being made here, but Castiel wasn’t entirely sure what the older man was hinting at. He narrowed his eyes, gazing at him a little more sharply, but Bobby just stared back, not as easy to read as Castiel would have preferred. Castiel was only a little ashamed to admit to himself that this man scared him a bit, in a respectful way. There was just something about Bobby Singer that commanded respect, that advertised authority. This was a man who was in control of the situations around his life, namely the situational disaster that seemed to be the Winchester brothers, and Castiel could certainly respect that, as well.

Bobby looked at him still for another long moment, reading him too, before he commented almost a little too innocently, “You’re the kid Dean knew from high school, right?”

It was a trick, and it was a damn good one, because there was no way for Castiel to wiggle his way out of it. Castiel wasn’t sure if he was correct as to Bobby Singer’s implication for the question, whether he wanted Castiel to wonder if he had come up in conversation long before Dean knew the identity of the FBI agents tracking him down, or if Dean had simply just told him after he found out—but still, somehow, it felt like a deviously crafted trick. This was the question Bobby had wanted to ask, just to see how Castiel would answer. And that would be what hung in the balance, his answer.

That was the trick.

Damn did Castiel both admire and despise Bobby Singer.

“Yes,” Castiel answered slowly, measuredly. “I lived down the street from them for most of our lives until the fire. Dean and I went to school with each other for the entirety of that time.”

Bobby stood there, waiting, like there was more. Castiel had a feeling he knew what Bobby was waiting for, and Castiel felt the back of his neck heat up again, for the second time in less than two hours. Castiel wasn’t used to feeling this much embarrassment, or awkwardness. Things rarely fazed him like this.

Castiel figured Bobby knew what he was silently implying, and there was a jump in his chest that made him wonder how the older man knew to imply it at all. Castiel took one good look at him, but Bobby was still highly unreadable. Castiel figured he would give the best answer he could.

“I like to think he was my best friend,” Castiel told Bobby honestly, and Bobby’s eyes danced with amusement that also showed in his grin.

“Best friend,” Bobby echoed, almost skeptically, and nodded, turning away. It was a test, and Castiel was pretty sure he failed, although he wasn’t sure if that was the outcome he should have achieved. Bobby glanced around the room, taking in the research, before he continued, “You seem like a smart cookie, Castiel. Having an extra brain around here helpin’ me out would be a good thing.”

“I don’t mind helping at all,” Castiel told him quickly, easily. “After all, you’re willing to put up with my presence here in your home. It’s the absolute least that I could do.”

Bobby nodded slowly, but it looked as though he was thinking more than agreeing. He turned back to look at him, gaze guarded. “I hope you recognize what you gave up, to do this.”

“Well aware,” Castiel told him measuredly, “and rather sick of hearing the reminder.”

Bobby put his hands up as if in surrender. “I know that. We’re just a little unsettled, since you chose it. Most of us in this line of work didn’t get the choice. There’s always somethin’ that happens that drags us into it, and never lets us out.”

Castiel let that sink in for a minute, before he said, “And I had a choice?”

Bobby stared at him for a long time. After a minute, Castiel thought that the man just looked sad. He looked away, nodding again, and walked to the kitchen, throwing open the refrigerator door.

“I reckon you didn’t,” Bobby murmured reluctantly, slamming the door shut and handing Castiel a beer like it was a reflex. Castiel took it without pointing out that it wasn’t even noon.

Bobby paced back into the living room and over to his desk, letting himself drop into the chair heftily. Castiel followed him slowly, lowering himself cautiously onto one of the chairs while Bobby watched him. For a moment, they just looked at each other, two people who read people, totally unreadable.

Until Bobby asked, “So, Castiel—what do you want to learn?”

And Castiel replied, “Everything.”

~*~

“Oh, good, you’re still alive,” were Dean’s reassuring first words when Castiel answered the Singer landline late into the second day of his supernatural tutoring. Castiel’s lips twitched into a grin without him being able to help it, Dean’s teasing just entirely too natural.

“I could be saying the same,” Castiel pointed out, and Dean laughed. “Any problems?”

“Done and done,” Dean answered confidently, his smirk probably visible from outer space. “Finished it off today, we think. Gonna run another check tonight, and probably leave early tomorrow morning. How’s study hall going?”

“I figured it would be more difficult,” Castiel admitted. Dean snorted. “More complicated, I mean. But it’s not too bad. I figure the difficulty would be when coming across something unknown in a moment of action, and needing to improvise.”

“No shit,” Dean said, sounding like a man who was all too aware of Castiel’s described figurative situation, and Castiel smiled. “Bobby not runnin’ you into the ground or anything?”

“Dean,” Castiel said, smirking despite himself, “are you calling to check in on me?”

Dean made a noise like a scoffing complaint, but Castiel was sure that, if he were there and this was the same Dean he knew, that Dean wouldn’t have been able to meet his eyes. “Gotta check in and tell Bobby I’m alive, so I figured I would ask. Stop laughing.”

And he was. For probably one of the first times since this whole disaster began, Castiel was laughing, unable to smother the feeling of happy that ran into his veins when it came to Dean, not even lingering on the thought of that enough to feel embarrassed or foolish, just letting himself live. It was a good feeling. Castiel would remember that when the walls inevitably came back up but, today, he was too tired to pretend.

“Your concern is truly touching,” Castiel teased him, still smirking. “You sound just like you did when that weird kid down the street wouldn’t leave me alone in middle school, and you’d get all moody every time you caught him harassing me.”

“I did not,” Dean replied indignantly, but Castiel had managed to shock a laugh out of the man, and the sound was nothing short of heavenly. “Okay, maybe I did, but I wasn’t letting a kid who had way too much knowledge about jams steal my best friend, it would have ruined my street cred.”

“Sure, Dean,” Castiel allowed sarcastically, laughing along with Dean. He shook his head, even though the other man couldn’t see him. “Focus on your case, make sure it’s wrapped up. I’ll tell Bobby you and Sam are alive as of right now.”

“Okay,” Dean said, still sounding cheerful, in a better mood than he had been in possibly since this mess had begun. “See ya, Cas.”

Dean hung up before Castiel could return the sentiment, but he was unbothered. Castiel set the landline back in the cradle and turned around, entirely expecting himself to be alone in the kitchen and jumping nearly a mile when he spotted Bobby standing in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyebrows up. Castiel suddenly felt guilty, like a kid who was caught with a hand in the cookie jar, but he hadn’t done anything.

Bobby’s tone betrayed his amusement as well as his suspicion when he intoned, “ _Best friends_ , huh?”

And before the whole shock could settle in over the unmistakable connotation to that, Bobby was gone, leaving Castiel standing in the kitchen feeling like he had been hit with a realization like a semi truck, and suddenly a little more anxious for Dean’s return, a million unanswered questions at the tip of his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com
> 
> xo Kay


	15. Who Are You

Castiel had initially tried to inform Bobby Singer that weapons training would be a moot point of his hunter training, arguing that he had learned how to properly shoot and treat a gun since before he graduated high school. Bobby, meanwhile, just rolled his eyes like it took a Herculean effort not to just slap Castiel upside the head and told him to just “do the goddamn exercises, kid”, so Castiel had just done what he had been told to do for the sake of his own sanity. He proved his prowess with firearms of all ranges of size and caliber and demonstrated seemingly good enough knowledge with them that they had moved on to something a little more . . . intimidating. Castiel knew the practicality of learning how to wield a machete due to his readings about vampires, but that didn’t change that he was convinced that he was going to accidentally dismember himself. Castiel took another swing at the crude wood-and-hay-sack mannequin of his victim, his hands holding extra tight to the handle in nothing more than his own paranoia, Bobby sharpening his own blade and keeping an eye on Castiel’s ministrations.

Castiel reached up and rubbed at the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. He had never spent an extensive time in South Dakota before, nothing more than several days at once, but he had already been here for about two weeks now, and he was not growing into the biggest fan of Midwest temperatures.

Castiel set down his blade, ignoring Bobby when the man’s eyebrow rose in silent criticism, and filled the silence by asking, “I’ve been meaning to ask you questions regarding Dean’s deal.”

It had been a long two weeks.

The Winchesters had returned soon after their first hunt, but had only stayed for another handful of days before they had left again, leaving Castiel behind in this house with a virtual stranger—which was an interesting feeling, seeing as, for all Castiel knew them, the Winchesters were just as much of strangers as Bobby. Bobby thought the same way, and hadn’t nearly been as reserved as Castiel in hiding that thought process. Castiel had been unsettled by Bobby at first—still was, but to a much lesser extent—by the way the man saw more than he let on, and let nothing show. Castiel, used to dealing with complex people and having to learn the languages of different people, had at least been thankful for the challenge.

But time, however little of it that had passed, had run its course. Castiel was beginning to feel much more comfortable around the man, especially once he realized that Bobby’s gruffness was not a sign of his distrust, and more simply just a sign that he was alive and breathing. Bobby seemed to allow Castiel due respect for his aptness to learn quickly, never asking stupid questions and retaining information with no difficulty. Castiel didn’t take more than he needed to, and Bobby wasn’t the kind of man that would give more than was absolutely necessary. They easily fell into a pattern, equilibrium, where it was safe for them to live in harmony without disturbing the balances of each other’s orbit.

That was working well for them. The Winchesters bridged the gap, closed the communication differences and any repressed distrust but, the second the door closed behind them, thus returned the respect and distrust, the distance and the connection.

Castiel had worked a little extra hard in the last two weeks to keep the order of the Singer house. He had tampered down a lot of curiosity, a lot of questions. But, finally, there were some that he simply could no longer ignore. There was one thing that had been eating at him, stealing sleep from him in the hours where he so desperately needed it. There were questions for Bobby that Castiel needed him to answer, despite that he knew there would be resistance.

Castiel couldn’t anymore dance around the topic of the demon deal Dean and Sam had touched on that first day at the diner in the middle of somewhere unknown. Castiel couldn’t get the thought out of his head every time he answered the main phone line instead of Bobby, couldn’t pretend like the way his heart would hammer with worry or anything of the sort other than what it so obviously was, the feelings that Castiel had hoped to be quelled at this point but only grew stronger still. Castiel could no longer keep his silence, not when he knew that there was a time limit, and that Dean would be gone so much sooner than Castiel was willing to say goodbye.

So, Castiel finally bit the bullet, and took the leap. And, instead of getting mad or irritated or anything else that would have been entirely characteristic of Bobby Singer, the other man instead just eyed Castiel closely from under the brim of his trucker cap, eyes narrowed like he was trying to read Castiel’s mind.

Castiel met his gaze patiently. He was willing to let Bobby read whatever he wanted to from his face. Castiel was tired of hiding his curiosity, his worry. He already feared that Bobby may know more than what Castiel was prepared for him to know—Castiel just wanted his answers, and was sick of dancing around this sensitive topic.

Bobby leaned back in his chair, slowly, and set the blade he had been sharpening down onto the table, pulling his arms back to his body to cross them over his chest. Castiel waited patiently.

“You didn’t think to ask Dean ’bout this?” Bobby demanded. This, at least, was an easy response.

“I did consider it,” Castiel admitted. “He and Sam were rather forthright with information when I questioned it a few weeks ago, but it was obvious that there were things that went unmentioned, or unsaid. I feel as though they were more caught up in their guilt, and they gave me the answers to the questions I asked because they felt as though they owed that much to me. But I know you do not think that way. I know that you will give me the answer if you feel as thought I deserve to know them. Dean, meanwhile, would more than likely withhold the information, always more of a martyr than willing to allow people to help him.”

Bobby did not even pretend to disagree. “You’re a strange kid, Castiel, but smart, I’ll give you that. You know how to play the pieces in front of you. And maybe you’re right—it’s probably about time you knew.”

“Life is not a chess game,” Castiel replied instead, frowning. “I might’ve seen it in that way at one point, but that is no longer my perspective.”

Bobby shook his head like Castiel had missed his point entirely before gesturing toward the seat across from him, which still sat empty, Castiel having opted to stand, hovering over the man like this form of intimidation would ever shake Bobby Singer. Castiel hesitated for only a moment before taking the seat, lowering himself down into it slowly, as if it may be a trap.

Castiel didn’t want to hear what Bobby was going to tell him, because Castiel did not enjoy suffering within his own mind. He already spent so many hours counting his sins, considering the things that had gone wrong and wondering if he would ever have the opportunity to make them right, and he was worried about what would be told to him. He was afraid of Dean Winchester haunting him again.

Perhaps, in a way, it was ironic that Castiel was being taught the details and techniques of hunting, because he couldn’t seem to get rid of his own ghosts and personal demons.

Bobby looked at him like he already knew, or at least already had an idea, of what Castiel was thinking. Castiel resisted the urge to assume a defensive or vulnerable position in his chair, instead keeping his chin high and his shoulders squared, an unmovable object. Bobby watched Castiel’s walls come back up, and his mouth twitched like he almost wanted to laugh, but he did not. Instead, he just seemed to make himself comfortable, taking the time to think.

“I assume they told you quite a bit,” Bobby commented vaguely, thoughtfully. “When you asked the first time, I guess they must’ve told you the basics—bury the box, talk to the demon, get what you want until time runs out. But I know damn well that Dean or Sam wouldn’t’a told you about how Sam died.”

Castiel shook his head cautiously, still afraid that he would be overstepping a line, not wanting to ask questions that needn’t be asked, but Bobby didn’t look bothered by his response—he only nodded, allowing himself another short pause to think, before letting out a long breath.

“It’s complicated, really,” Bobby told him like he needed to convince him, and Castiel just nodded, understanding. “There was a bit of a mess—long story short, Sam had a bit of demon blood in him from the thing that killed his mom, and he had these— _visions_. Don’t have ’em much anymore, at least from what I know, but it set him apart, and that demon, Azazel, he wanted to collect those kids. Wanted to make them the leaders of his army. He kidnapped ’em, threw ’em in the same town, and wanted to see who came out alive. Dean and I managed to find ’em with just Sam and another kid left. Sam saw us, let down his guard just for a second, and the other kid just stabbed him right in the back. Sam didn’t even see it comin’. Lasted another little bit, I think. Dean caught him before he fell, and I chased after the kid, but lost ’em. Got back and Dean was screamin’, clingin’ to his little brother. Hadn’t ever seen the kid so broken.”

Bobby’s eyes were glazed over, someplace far away. Castiel didn’t dare interrupt that, sitting still and silent, like he was afraid of shattering the tension in the air around them. Bobby didn’t even notice his tension, continuing in his story, trying not to let his own emotions show.

“Broke Dean up real bad. Thought for a while he was gonna do somethin’ bad, you know? Guess he did, in the end, but you know what I mean. Somethin’ worse. He kept refusin’ to bury Sam, kept him on a bed and kept standin’ over him, scary kind of silent. He refused to eat, sleep, all that. It was like he just stopped livin’ when Sam died. Eventually, he snapped, told me to leave when I kept tellin’ him we had to bury Sam. I left, thinkin’ that Dean would do it on his own time. I guess that sometime after that, Dean got the idea, and he drove out to a crossroads and made the deal. Got a year when normally they offer ten, but Dean’s a hunter and all that, and we still hadn’t tracked down Azazel by then. Next thing I know, it’s the next day and there’s a knock on the door, and damned if I don’t open it and see Dean and Sam standin’ there, Sam smilin’ and actin’ all normal. I couldn’t believe it—at once, though, I kinda did. Dean couldn’t live without his brother. He just couldn’t. That dad of theirs brainwashed Dean good, and Dean didn’t know what to do without Sam. So he did whatever he could to make sure that he got his brother back.

“Dean ended up gankin’ that son of a bitch Azazel a couple of days later, only a little bit too late. Some demons escaped Hell, some souls too, but that ain’t the point. Ever since, Sam and I’ve been tryin’ to figure out how to save Dean, but there ain’t much. When Dean made the deal, the demon told him that, if he tried to break it, Sam would drop dead, and Dean won’t put Sam in danger. He’s more willin’ to die for his brother than accept that he can live without him. So, that’s how we’re here—Dean’s only got a couple months, and Sam and I are tryin’ to figure out a way, but there ain’t one, far as I can see.”

Castiel waited when Bobby stopped talking, not knowing if he was finished or not, but, once a sizeable silence followed the man’s words, Castiel offered his own. “That one demon, from the police station—she said something about Dean’s contract being held by a demon named Lilith.”

“Yeah,” Bobby affirmed, nodding. “I’m tryin’ to find her, but not havin’ much luck. Some demons, they’re so powerful that you’re not ’bout to find them till they’re ready to be found, you know? But, without her, we just—we don’t know what to do. We aren’t sure how to save Dean, ’cause the kid doesn’t even wanna save himself. We’re runnin’ out of ideas, and time. That’s part of the reason I’m surprised he brought you here.”

Castiel blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean by that?”

Bobby looked up and him and shrugged, but the look in his eyes was anything but uncomprehending. “Dean’s only got months. I was a bit surprised he was tryin’ to make amends with you when there were so many other things he coulda been worryin’ ’bout.”

Castiel stared at Bobby, considering that before shaking his head, not wanting to get into whatever mind game Bobby was trying to play with him, as if trying to get him to admit to something. Instead, Castiel asked, “What’s going to happen when Dean’s time runs out? How does—what happens once the contract is filled?”

“Hellhounds,” Bobby told him gravely, looking away from him, and Castiel had a feeling that they were a creature about as bad as their reputation spoke of them to be. “Hellhounds come to collect. Since it’s Dean, and some big wig seems to be holdin’ the cards, she might show up with ’em. But we’re not sure ’bout that part. Just the hellhounds.”

“Do you truly believe that you will not be able to save him in time?” Castiel asked Bobby, feeling sick, hating that look on Bobby’s face like he was failing the biggest mission of his life. “I mean, I’m sure there must be something, somewhere there has to be some way to escape these contracts, or some way that they can be rewritten. Someone must have done this before, _someone_ must _know_ —”

“Far as I know, no one’s survived it,” Bobby told him honestly, looking defeated and tired. “But we got a couple months still, Cas. There’s still some time. It’s just hopin’ for the best, and givin’ your all, you know?”

“I want to help you,” Castiel told him earnestly, seriously, his chest in knots at the thought of not being able to save Dean. When he swallowed, it felt like he was swallowing razor blades. “I would rather help you the best I can with this then learn more of hunting or weapons. I want to help there. That has a time limit. Once we save Dean, I can learn this at any time. I can be your extra set of eyes.”

“Cas,” Bobby began, like he wasn’t sure, but Castiel cut him off with nothing more than a look.

“I refuse to allow Dean to die,” Castiel told him solidly and evenly, confidently, like he was commanding troops, like he was leading a siege into Hell all on his own just to keep them from claiming Dean. Castiel met Bobby’s eyes, holding his ground, and repeated. “I _refuse_. Okay?”

Bobby looked at him for a moment, his thoughts hidden behind a mask before, slowly, he started to nod.

“Alright, I hear ya,” Bobby told him wearily, reaching up and rubbing his eyes with one hand. “But, for now, we’re gonna finish up teachin’ you the basics, you hear me? Dean and Sam’re gonna wanna take you on a hunt soon, and I’m not lettin’ you go and get yourself killed ’cause you don’t know how to do a simple salt-and-burn.”

Castiel nodded reluctantly, allowing for that, and Bobby wasted no more time before gesturing for him to get going.

“Fix your posture, too,” Bobby remarked, turning back to his work. “Your left side is lookin’ a little weak.”

Castiel turned back to his machete and his lesson, storing everything in the back of his mind for later, and got back to work.

~*~

Dean looked positively gleeful when Bobby deemed Castiel’s skills as decent enough for an easy hunt. He practically vibrated in his seat when they loaded into the Impala, Castiel returning dutifully to his seat in the back behind Sam, barely allowing Bobby the time to wish them a gruff (and a little sarcastic) good luck before he was pealing out of the drive, the tires of the Impala eating up the asphalt under them.

Sam explained the general gist of the case they had taken in the early miles, telling Castiel the story of an old haunted house that drives the owners away. The ghost in it was mean, but not murderous, a man of a long time ago who wants peace and quiet and to be left alone. Four families had moved out of the house in the last several months, and a friend of theirs had caught wind of it and put out the bulletin for anything close by.

“Since he’s nothing too dangerous, it’s good for teaching you the basics,” Dean explained without taking his eyes off of the road, still in a very chipper mood. “We’ll question the witnesses, ask around about the guy who’s haunting the place, and show you the nice traditional salt-and-burn. Should take us maybe a day.”

“It’ll take more time to get there than to solve the case,” Castiel pointed out, finding it a little counter-productive, but Dean just laughed.

“Nothing better than the open road, man,” Dean told him, glancing back to shoot him a grin. “Get used to it, Cas. Ain’t much else on the cards if you plan on doin’ this even semi-permanently.”

Castiel nodded, all too aware of the thousands of miles he’d spent flying over the country, of the hundreds of motels he had slept in while investigating in every single state. Castiel told them that much, telling them about all of the places he had seen, and Sam and Dean were especially curious about Hawaii and Alaska, explaining that they had never left the continent.

“Dean’s a pansy about flying,” Sam explained, snorting as Dean turned to glare at him harshly. “Not to mention that we had a case not long after I left California that involved a demon possessing a pilot trying to crash the thing. Dean swore off flying forever after that.”

“Not to mention that we don’t have passports, and can’t get ’em,” Dean pointed out, rolling his eyes. “Even before we were on the Most Wanted list, everyone still thought I’d killed people.”

“True,” Sam relented. “But even if we did, you wouldn’t go.”

“Fuck no,” Dean agreed instantly, smirking. “Nothing could possible be worth the flight, dude. Nothing.”

Sam glanced back at Castiel, face flat and unamused. Castiel laughed.

“I remember that one time you guys went to Disney World back when Dean and I were like ten,” Castiel told them, grinning. “Dean cried for about three days when your mom broke it to him that they weren’t driving.”

“Damn straight,” Dean muttered. “I hate flying.”

“You hadn’t ever been on a plane before that.”

“Human beings are meant to belong on the ground, Cas,” Dean told him seriously, the same argument he had made back when they were ten. “It’s unnatural.”

“With that theory, cars would also be unnatural.”

“You shut your mouth,” Dean told him flatly the second Castiel had finished speaking, and the two of them locked eyes in the rearview mirror before bursting into laughter, Castiel shaking his head before turning to look out the window like it might hide his smile.

Castiel pretended not to notice when Sam turned to look at Dean, his lips pursed against a smug grin and his eyebrows up. Dean pretended to ignore him, too, and Castiel tried not to jump to conclusions about what it might mean, thinking back to the muted skepticism on Bobby’s face when he had referred to them as best friends.

Castiel turned his face toward the window and pretended like he wasn’t thinking about Dean, and the time not too long ago when he loved him.

~*~

They chose a haggard-looking motel on the edge of town, right where concrete gave way to cornfields that seemed to go on for miles and miles. It was a little backwoods town in Ohio to go with the farmhouse they would be investigating, but the place seemed welcoming enough. They arrived a little too late in the day, past dinnertime, which Dean took as a sign for them to not do anything at all else with their day, so they settled down in the room with food from a fast food joint and a telenovela that Dean was much more invested in than Castiel had expected him to be. Sam and Castiel were kicked up on the bed, having won them in a game of rock-paper-scissors (in which they both seemed to know quite well that Dean always chose scissors), and Dean was lounged on a raggedy couch, munching on fries.

“Since when do you speak Spanish?” Castiel finally realized, glancing over at Dean about twenty minutes into the program. Dean dragged his eyes from the television like it brought him great pain to do so, acknowledging Castiel’s question with a smug smirk.

“When this is your only form of entertainment seventy-five percent of the time,” Dean began, “you learn it.”

“You never even bothered to study for the class in high school,” Castiel pointed out, smirking at the memories of Dean falling sleep over a Spanish book half a dozen times, and one memorable instance in which Dean had tied their Spanish books to his feet to use as snow shoes. “You used to cheat off of all of my tests and copy my homework. I spent half of freshman year in detention because of you.”

Dean laughed like he didn’t mean to laugh but couldn’t help it. “I’m still not sorry. It’s the only way I passed that class.”

“Dean used to cheat off of you?” Sam demanded, looking to Castiel. “And you _let_ him?”

“I’m too charming to resist,” Dean pointed out, and Castiel wished that was a tease, but it had basically been the truth, even then. Dean when he was a kid, a teenager, was almost even more charming and charismatic than he is now. There was something about the innocence in his smile, the energetic gleam in his eye. Everyone knew that Dean Winchester was up to something, but it was never something more troublesome than a small prank or bending the rules in class. Until it wasn’t.

Castiel shook that thought off before telling Sam, “I didn’t so much let him willingly as I did reluctantly. He never would have let me live in peace if I hadn’t.”

“Smart man,” Dean commended him. “And Cas cheated off me in physics, so it was a fair trade.”

Sam’s eyes practically bugged out of his head as he turned to Castiel. Castiel laughed.

“It’s true,” he confirmed, a little sheepishly, shooting a conspiratorial grin at Dean. “But we never got caught then. I’m infinitely more smooth.”

“Yeah right,” Dean snorted. “In other words, you’re a teacher’s pet and the lady loved you so much that she couldn’t fathom you breaking school rules, so she never breathed down your neck.”

“That’s what I said,” Castiel told him patiently, earnestly, and Dean and Sam both burst out laughing. “Could’ve gotten in worse trouble, really, in our day. My little sister Charlie once hacked the whole school system to change the lunch menu and got suspended for a month.”

“That’s incredible,” Sam stated, eyes wide and impressed as Dean laughed so hard he nearly choked on a French fry. “How did she learn to do that?”

“She likes to say natural talent,” Castiel replied, rolling his eyes, “but my mom likes to say it’s because Charlie isn’t having fun unless she’s slowly dismantling the system, so she taught herself to do what is absolutely necessary.”

“She out ruling the world yet?” Dean asked.

“No, she’s working a corporate tech job, actually. But that’s honestly just a front. She’s lucky I never figured out exactly what she was up to, as a federal agent, but I have it on good authority that she’s actually stealing money from the rich and giving to the poor.”

“Go Charlie,” Dean said appreciatively, and Sam nodded in agreement. Dean hooked his head around to look at his brother. “Was that the one you had a crush on back in the day?”

“Dean,” Sam hissed, scandalized, and turned wide, horrified eyes to Castiel, which was enough to cause him to burst into laughter, his smile feeling like it would split his cheeks.

“If it was, it is my brotherly duty to tell you that you don’t have a chance anyway, as Charlie is a lesbian,” Castiel informed him, drifting off into laughter as Dean’s deepened, spreading like a contagion. Castiel smirked over at Sam. “She’s also the person who saw the two of you in Kansas after I thought that Dean was dead. Imagine that phone call.”

“I always liked Charlie,” Dean said approvingly, as if she totally hadn’t ratted out him and his brother to the authorities. “She was a quirky kid. Had a good taste in comics.”

“When she was seventeen, Balthazar took her and Samandriel to ComicCon,” Castiel told them, choking back his laughter but sure it could show by the grin on his face. “They came back and Charlie’d gotten drunk and gotten a tattoo. You should’ve seen the look on my mother’s face.”

“Oh god,” Sam sniggered, reaching up a hand to cover his mouth. “What was it of?”

“Slave Leia from _Star Wars_ ,” Castiel explained humorlessly, “straddling a twenty-sided die.”

Dean fell off of the couch, clutching his sides.

“Charlie had double the amount of carefree and humor to make up for Anna’s seriousness.” Castiel smiled fondly at the thought of his little sisters. He missed them some days, today especially because he had watched the camaraderie of the brothers and had to be reminded of his own siblings. As if he sensed the way that Castiel’s thoughts were drifting, Dean heaved himself back onto the couch, sitting up like a normal human and kicking his feet onto the coffee table, arms crossed.

“I once tickled Sam so hard he peed his pants,” Dean informed him thoughtfully, smirking. “He was fourteen, and it was in a shopping mall.”

“Dean!” Sam objected, horrified, and then turned to Castiel with a cold determination in his eyes. “Three weeks after Arkansas, Dean got so drunk that he passed out on the motel room floor, his pants around his ankles and his boots on his hands.”

“Oh, it’s on,” Dean growled, eyes flashing in a threat, and then the two brothers were off, spilling embarrassing story after embarrassing story, Castiel chipping in every once in a while to tell them stories of his or his family’s, or the times where Dean had embarrassed himself in front of him, Castiel learning more and more about Sam and Dean and the two of them learning about him; and Castiel might be a little nostalgic for the people that they were but he was more proud of the people they had all become, three men who had spent most of their lives aiming to the save the world in whatever way they saw fit, and Castiel could not have been more honored to know the two of them as they were, and as how they had become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting patiently! I didn't edit this very carefully, so I apologize for any typos!
> 
> My Tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com
> 
> x Kay


	16. How Far We've Come

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Castiel said.

“Hey now,” Dean replied, turning to frown at him. “You’re willing to allow for the ghosts, but you’re gonna start getting an attitude when you find out we impersonate agents? Seriously?”

“Not about that,” Castiel replied, waving a hand dismissively. “Anyway, I already knew about that. I just . . .” Castiel reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to cling to any amount of patience he may have left. “Have either of you ever _read_ the FBI uniform regulations?”

“Uh,” Sam responded, confused. “No?”

“I don’t know how in the hell you two haven’t been arrested before,” Castiel told them honestly, almost a little awed. He narrowed his eyes at Sam. “You need to cut your hair. Any cop with half a brain cell would know you’re not the real deal.”

“What?” Sam demanded, as if betrayed, reaching up to touch his head. “Why?”

“You would fail in an instant,” Castiel informed him, frowning as he stared a hole through the outfit Sam had dug out of a garment bag in the Impala’s trunk. “Dark pressed suit. Hair cannot touch your collar. Sam, your shoes don’t even _match_.”

“Jeez, who are you, the fashion police? No one ever suspects us, Cas. They aren’t looking for people to suspect. They’ve got too much to worry about to check if my hair touches my collar.”

Castiel frowned at him.

Dean, finally, couldn’t take it anymore, and started laughing. He nudged Castiel with his elbow as he passed by, winking at him when Castiel looked up to frown at him, too, for elbowing him. “Lay off, Cas. I know it’s probably a pet peeve, but we can handle this.”

Castiel didn’t stop frowning. “I was just stating simple facts and procedure. A proper special agent, if they were to walk on the scene, would be able to read you like a map.”

“We’ve never really run into you guys before.”

“Yes, but _before_ they weren’t hyperaware that one of their own special agents may have turned on them for a pair of Most Wanted brothers, who certainly would have been featured in a bulletin to all field offices.”

Dean’s grin fell a little at that, noticing Castiel’s point. Sam bit his lip as he leaned back in his chair, balancing on the back two legs.

“Okay, you’ve got a point,” Sam allowed. “But, with that logic, none of us could go.”

“I am just stating fact.”

“Huh,” Dean said like he was in a different conversation before turning to squint at Cas. “When they sent those warnings out, you think they would pair me and Sam together, and then you would be another announcement?”

Castiel considered that, and then nodded. “Probably. While I am wanted, you two are still considered partners in crime, and they would know that there are many instances of your rap sheets where I would not have been with you. They also would probably assume that we wouldn’t stick together, because that’s potentially foolish, and they would know I am not that.”

“Neither are we,” Sam muttered petulantly, his feelings obviously still a little hurt. Dean completely ignored him.

“Alright, then how about this,” Dean proposed, raising his eyebrows as if daring Castiel to protest. “You and me can team up for this one, alright? That way you and Sam can get some time to simmer from your little spat, Sam and I won’t get recognized by being together, and I still can teach you the ropes about how to play FBI our way. How does that sound?”

Castiel glanced to Sam, as if to check and make sure he wasn’t too offended. Sam caught his gaze and rolled his eyes in response, flopping down onto the bed and abandoning the suit from where it was sitting on the table still, tucking his arms behind his head and letting out a loud yawn.

“Oh darn,” he said sarcastically. “Whatever will I do when you’re away?”

“Stop being a bitch,” Dean told him in a very older brother fashion before turning back to Castiel, still waiting for the acceptance or denial of his plan. And, since Castiel didn’t usually argue unless he could offer a better alternative, he sighed, conceding.

“Fine,” Castiel said, “but, if we are compromised, I get to say that I told you so.”

Sam let out a startled laugh, opening his eyes again to grin over at Castiel with amused glee, like he was suddenly remembering he was dealing with a fellow younger brother. Dean rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath that Castiel couldn’t make out but nodded anyway, holding his hands up like he was silently asking a greater power, _Well, what can you do?_

“Get dressed, Mark Felt,” Dean ordered before turning on his heel and snatching up his own garments and striding toward the bathroom, calling over his shoulder, “We’ve got shell-shocked witnesses to interview!”

The bathroom door slammed shut in Dean’s wake, and Castiel gazed after him for a moment before he slowly turned to face Sam, raising his eyebrows.

“He does realize that my whole career has been interviewing shell-shocked witnesses, right?” Castiel demanded. “He _does_ know this is not new for me?”

“Just let him get excited,” Sam said dismissively, shrugging as he reached for the remote. “This is practically better than a soap opera for him.”

Castiel blinked slowly. “He watches soap operas?”

“Yup,” Sam said, popping the ‘p’, and smirked. “Make sure to ask him about Doctor Sexy.”

Castiel made a note to do no such thing and, instead, searched for his clothes.

~*~

It turned out that Castiel didn’t have to ask Dean about Doctor Sexy.

“You’ve never seen it?” Dean demanded, awestruck. “Dude, you’re a fed. You must have lived out of as many motels as we did.”

“There were many motels,” Castiel relented, “but I never typically watched the television. I was usually working.”

“Dude, you’re a total drag,” Dean told him, very heartfelt, taking his eyes off of the road in order to purse his lips unhappily at Castiel. “You didn’t watch TV, and you don’t know shit about movies—so all you did was work?”

Castiel nodded.

“Dude,” Dean muttered, sounding horrified.

“I’ve been rather comatose the last few years,” Castiel allowed. “I got into plenty when I was in college but, once I was in the Bureau and—that’s kind of when I started my disconnect, not long after.”

Dean didn’t say anything at first, and it lulled Castiel into a sort of false sense of security, thinking that the questioning on the topic was over. However, it turned out to simply be Dean allowing himself time to think, because he soon demanded, “What do you mean by ‘disconnect’?”

Castiel, as usual in social situations, had found his foot in his mouth. He glanced over at Dean, hoping his reluctance to answer was showing on his face but, if it was, Dean was just as stubborn as him. Dean raised his eyebrows after a moment where Castiel didn’t answer and instead left the music to fill in the silence. Castiel looked out the window, grimacing, figuring that, if he had to answer such an embarrassing question, he would at least rather not look at Dean directly when he did.

“I,” Castiel began, and then paused. “I reached a point in the Bureau, early on, where I became rather obsessive about one case in particular. It started to really get to me, you know, really started clawing at my brain every time I tried to work on anything else. I was able to cope, really, in that I could do other work and I could do it well, but—in my free time, it was all I could think of. It was all strategies and hunches and guesses. My obsession helped me, somewhat—I was able to learn how to track, how to suspect what movements people will make. But otherwise, it just—it eroded me. It just started eating away at me like a virus, and I fell into a spiral headed downward. It—it was not a good time for me.”

Castiel didn’t look back to Dean to know what his face looked like, but the reflection on the Impala’s window was good enough that he saw the blur that was Dean turn its head toward him, and he felt his gaze on the back of his neck. Castiel kept his silence, refusing to dig himself into a deeper hole.

Dean was the one that finally broke the silence, slowly prompting, “That case wouldn’t have happened to have been mine, would it?”

“Unfortunately,” Castiel admitted, still not turning around, “it was.”

“What happened to just—to make you think like that?”

Castiel could have answered that question in a number of ways, and they all would have been correct. He could have told Dean that he had always ever thought about him, wondering where he had gone, vowing to track him down one day and get the answers he so badly needed. He could have told Dean that maybe the case had crossed his desk, or he had filed it away, or he heard Michael whispering about it to his father one day. He could have told him lies like those, or truths like the others, but he didn’t.

Instead, Castiel replied, “I died.”

Dean’s head snapped to look at him again, and this time Castiel turned to face him as well. Dean looked stunned. Castiel just smiled patiently.

“It changes your perspective,” Castiel explained, “when you realize just how mortal you are. Doesn’t it?”

Dean nodded slowly, expression thoughtful as he turned back to the road, pressing down on the brake as they approached a red light.

“Yeah,” he answered, his voice thick with hidden thoughts. He nodded again, almost like he didn’t even notice that he was nodding at all. “Yeah. It does.”

They didn’t speak the rest of the way there.

~*~

For Castiel, questioning the witness was routine—to Dean, it was similarly routine, in that he knew how to play the part. Castiel lead the conversation, going through his usual pleasantries and calm introductions, easing the witness into liking him enough to want to sit down and answer questions without resistance. Once they sat down, Dean took over the reigns without Castiel needing to hand them off, immediately lobbing the right questions at her, clarifying the ones he needed to be clarified. She used to own the home, she told them, and she had moved after the third time the man broke into her house and threatened her, having no idea that the man in question was actually dead. Dean was so good at putting her at ease that she never even asked deeper into why the FBI might be looking into a strange man who used to break into her old house, taking Dean’s explanation of him being wanted for dangerous other crimes with a solemn understanding head nod.

She answered all of their questions and showed them out with a bright smile, Castiel and Dean cheerfully wishing for her to have a good day as they went. The moment the door was shut behind her and they had made it back to the car, Dean grinned at him over the roof of the Impala, looking invigorated.

“Dude, we make a great team,” Dean told him cheerfully, sliding into the driver’s seat. Castiel followed and Dean continued, “It was like good cop and bad cop, you know? Only it was more like cool cop and super-formal-and-by-the-book cop.”

Castiel smiled, amused. Admittedly, Dean’s statement wasn’t all that inaccurate—they had been a good team. Castiel would even go so far as to argue that they had been better than he and Naomi. There was an easy understanding between them, both of them seeming to know who was going to ask which question and when without needing to be told or signaled.

“It’s like we’re drift compatible or something,” Dean continued to rant excitedly, turning onto a road that would presumably take them back to the motel. “Man, forget Sam and his puppy dog eyes of trust-me-I’m-an-angel, we could slay the shit out of some interrogations just because we’re naturally that awesome.”

Castiel couldn’t help but to laugh, both a little caught up in Dean’s enthusiasm but also rather confused by it. Dean looked at him when he laughed and frowned, but there was still excitement dancing around his eyes, and he was back to smiling by the time he looked back to the road.

“What?”

Castiel shook his head. “Just a few weeks ago, I was the asshole fed hunting you down and you were the dangerous criminal. And now we’re impersonating agents and you’re saying we’re draft compatible.”

“Drift,” Dean corrected, but nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Time is weird, dude. One thing this business teaches you is not to get too comfortable—things change all the time, and it’s usually not how you expect it to.”

Castiel nodded, allowing for that explanation, although he believed it might stem from perhaps their past friendship, or their easy camaraderie. Dean was practically whistling behind the wheel, happily drumming along to the beat of the song Castiel didn’t recognize on the radio.

“So, about the haunting,” Castiel pressed, and Dean nodded exaggeratedly, like he just remembered that was why they were there and impersonating agents to begin with.

“Seems pretty below average,” Dean reported, slowing as they approached a red light. “It just sounds like some old coot’s gotten stuck in his old house and doesn’t even know that he’s freaking out and hurting people. He should be easy to deal with—sometimes you can even talk those down, and you don’t even need to salt and burn them. But they can also go the other way.”

“And you actually dig up these bodies in order to salt and burn them?”

Dean nodded. “Remember how I had those grave desecrations on my record?”

“Huh.” Castiel blinked at him. “What do you do if they were cremated?”

“If that’s the case, then they’re usually sticking around something that was important to them, like a belonging,” Dean explained. “One time, when Sam and I were in New York—oh, wait, you talked to her, right, Sarah Blake? Yeah, when we were helping her out, we had to burn this old doll because the hair used for it was the same as our murderous little girl that was climbing out of a painting.”

Castiel stared at him, stricken. “That sounds horrifying.”

“Oh, dude, it was something straight out of _The Ring_ ,” Dean laughed, smirking. “I mean, we get stuff like that sometimes, but usually we get lucky and the body’s still hanging around and we don’t need Sam’s creepy random knowledge of dolls.”

Castiel laughed, and then launched into a story about how one of his roommates had written a whole paper for her pop culture class about how she strongly believed that dolls shouldn’t be demonized in film and novels, somehow managing to come up with twenty pages worth of argument, and Dean grinned through the entirety of the whole thing, every once in a while interrupting to remark on something extremely creepy or to say something sarcastic. Castiel continued his story even as they pulled into a spot outside of the motel, telling Dean as they climbed out of the car and headed to the door, “There’s just something inherently creepy about them, and I don’t understand why she believed—”

Suddenly, Dean reached out and grabbed his sleeve, tugging. Castiel stumbled a step closer to Dean as Dean closed the gap and, before he knew it, they were kissing, chaste and firm and anything but an accident. They pulled away from each other after a moment that passed like a heartbeat, both of their eyes flickering up to meet each other’s, and it wasn’t until Dean licked his lips that they both surged forward, all lips and hints of tongue. Dean’s hands curled into Castiel’s jacket, keeping him anchored close, and Castiel’s hands came up to tangle in Dean’s hair, allowing him even less of a chance to get away.

It didn’t feel real, for the first moments it took for Castiel to realize _oh my god, I’m kissing Dean Winchester_. Castiel had thought about it so much when he was a teenager that it was almost like he had desensitized himself to it, until it finally hit him like a mallet straight to the diaphragm, and his heart started beating wildly and his skin started heating up because _holy shit I’m kissing Dean Winchester_. And Dean was kissing him _back_ , against the odds, like the best kind of daydream, with just the right kind of pressure, his breathing irregular against Castiel’s, his pulse beating under Castiel’s hands.

They pulled away simultaneously, leaving an inch of space in between them as they caught their breath. Dean swayed forward, chasing after Castiel, and their lips brushed one more time before they parted again, this time Castiel cracking his eyes open. Dean was already looking at him, gaze somehow both soft and heated, his lips a little red. Castiel met his gaze evenly, waiting for the moment that they both realized what they were doing and pushed each other away, but it didn’t come. Instead, as they stared at each other, Dean’s lips even pulled up into a grin, like he couldn’t believe it had happened.

Castiel wanted to ask, wanted oh so desperately just to open his mouth and ask what that was and what this was about, but he didn’t get the chance—the moment he was about to, the door to their motel room swung open, and he and Dean shocked away from each other, turning to face it. Sam blinked back at them, eyes widening, a million questions chased with amusement crossing his face. Castiel stared back at him, hoping his face was as blank as he was willing to it to be, and hoping just a little bit harder than that that he wasn’t turning red.

By the amused upturn of Sam’s lips as he raised his eyebrows, Castiel was pretty sure he had failed on all fronts.

“Uh,” Sam said, “should I come back later?”

Dean scowled at him, causing Sam to laugh and shake his head, grinning. He held up the paper he was holding in his hand, and then waved it in the air like they might be able to see what was printed on it.

“Was the ghost’s name Herbert, by any chance?” Sam demanded. Dean frowned.

“I hope not, what a shitty name,” Dean replied, and then added more seriously when Sam scowled, “Maybe. Why?”

“He’s the last person to die in the house in the last ten years,” Sam informed him. “Figured it wouldn’t have to be much more than that, since he isn’t losing it and trying to hurt people and all of that. This case literally just looks like a crotchety old man telling people to get off of his property.”

“Ugh,” was Dean’s response, his nose scrunched in distaste. “Well, at least it’ll be easy.”

Sam looked in between them two exaggeratedly in an obviously silent question before pointedly looking at his brother, looking as though he was barely refraining from laughing. Dean narrowed his eyes at him, as if daring him to say something, before demanded, “So that’s it?”

“That’s it,” Sam replied. “Buried out in the cemetery on the edge of town.”

“Great,” Dean said, voice clearly forced to be casual. He pushed Sam aside and strode into the room as he announced, “I’m gonna change out of this monkey suit, then we’re gonna eat before we dig up a body.”

“Sure,” Sam replied as the bathroom door slammed from deeper into the room, not looking away from Castiel. His smirk was telling, and his eyebrows rose when Castiel continued to not say anything, refusing to speak. Sam’s smirk was already amused, but it twisted into an even deeper amusement as they continued to stare at each other, challenging the other to say the first word, and it looked like Sam was trying his damnedest not to laugh.

His mirth was suffocating.

“Shut up, Sam,” Castiel snapped, narrowing his eyes, and Sam lost his battle with holding in his laughter.

“I didn’t say anything,” he objected, grinning even as Castiel pushed past him, feeling the back of his neck heating up in embarrassment and hoping the younger Winchester didn’t notice. Knowing Sam’s intuition, as well as his devotion to find ammunition for embarrassing his older brother at every chance he got, Castiel figured that his attempts were moot.

Castiel stalked over to his duffle bag, shaking his head as he shuffled the contents around in search of something more permitting of . . . grave desecration. He was able to dig out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt by the time he realized Sam was staring across the space at him, no longer grinning but instead looking thoughtful. The noise from the bathroom suggested the sink was running, rusting pipes groaning in complaint through the walls. Castiel was the one this time to raise his eyebrows, silently asking a question he knew Sam would understand. Sam, seeming to realize he was staring, smiled sheepishly, shrugging.

“It just makes sense, you know?” he asked, and Castiel didn’t have to inquire further to know that Sam was discussing what he just walked in on. Sam shrugged again. “It’s always just been the way it’s been. You were the reason Dean didn’t want to run in Lawrence, and now I think you’re the reason why he’s even considering trying to find a way to stay now, even if he’s afraid to because of his deal—but whatever, that’s not what I mean. What I mean is, I’m fine with it. It practically just feels like a statement of fact now.”

Castiel understood perfectly what Sam was trying to say, both the general words as well as the deeper meanings behind them, but the more he tried to compute that he was correct, the more his brain was coming up with an error sign.

“Wait,” he said. “Lawrence?”

Sam rolled his eyes. It was a very little brother thing to do, Castiel recognized with a nostalgic pang in his chest.

“Duh,” Sam replied, less like a Stanford grad and more like the eleven-year-old kid Castiel had once known with the big feet and awkward limbs. “Come on, dude. Anyone with eyes would have known it wasn’t just him. Even now, you guys still do that creepy stare thing like you’re reading each others’ minds and it just _works_ , you know?”

Castiel, blown away, didn’t know how to properly articulate a response good enough for that revelation, so he just nodded slowly. As if on cue, the bathroom door swung open and Dean swaggered back into the room, wearing a pair of ripped jeans and a stained white t-shirt. On his feet was only a pair of socks, and there was something oddly endearing about that that almost made Castiel smile.

Dean noticed the awkward air probably like a fog he just walked into, because it didn’t take him more than two steps before he paused, suspiciously glancing at both of them from the edge of the tile. He was gripping his suit precariously in his hands—Castiel almost wanted to wince.

“What’s up?” Dean asked cautiously, but Castiel just shook his head and grabbed his own clothes, shuffling past to the temporary sanctuary from Sam’s knowing smirk.

“Your turn,” Castiel told him blankly before shutting the door firmly behind him, muffling the sounds of Sam’s heartened laughter and Dean’s unhappy groan. Castiel grinned at himself in the sink before turning it on, splashing water into his face and taking a deep breath, his heart still stuttering a little too fast inside of his chest.

Everything was taking a turn. Everything in his life was changing and he was having to look at it in a new light, and even though he had lost so much in such a short time and he wished he could have it back, he didn’t quite all mind the place he had ended up, not if that meant he could be sitting backseat to the Winchesters, catching Dean’s lingering gaze knowing that it means something.

But he was all too aware that he had a time limit, and Sam bringing it up again just now was just one of the many reminders.

They were running out of time, and Castiel would not let Dean Winchester die.

Castiel changed into clothes for destroying a grave, and he thought.

~*~

If Castiel learned anything quickly, it was that hunting was not a very glamorous life.

He learned fast that it was about back roads and crappy motel rooms and greasy diner food, but the actual hunt was the part where he got the best view of it—specifically, four feet deep into a grave with sweat pouring down his back and dirt under his fingernails. He winced as he leaned back, desperately trying to crack his back, his core stiff.

“So you have to do this for most every ghost?” Castiel asked, although knowin the answer, glancing over to Dean, who was also standing in the grave. Sam, having been digging before them, was sitting on the ground next to them, yawning intermittently. “What happens if they are in a tomb?”

“Oh, we’ve had those before,” Dean confirmed, nodding. “And mausoleums. Those suck, since you have to go and break in and shit.”

“What if they’re incased in marble?”

Dean considered that for a moment, pausing in his movements. He leaned against his shovel and pursed his lips at the sky before shrugging, turning back to smirk at Castiel. “Hasn’t come up, but I’m sure we would figure out something.”

“This job seems to be mostly improvisation.”

“It is,” Sam agreed from ground level, focusing on the dirt under his fingernails. “We’ve become pretty good at just winging it and hoping for the best.”

Castiel went back to digging and Dean, after a moment, did as well.

“Do you tell the truth to most people that you save or help?” Castiel asked, focusing on what he was doing but dying of curiosity now that it was a good and convenient time for questioning. “You didn’t tell the family that had previously lived in the house, but you told all of us in Monument.”

He thought about Nancy and the deputy and all of those people that were dead now because they had gotten out just fast enough and hadn’t stuck around to help them with who had come next. He forced himself to swallow, and his next dig cut through the earth a little more aggressively.

“Depends on the case,” Dean confirmed, already back to huffing. “Sometimes, they don’t need to know. Others, they just don’t want to. I can’t really blame them. Some people would just not be able to handle it, believing there is more out there and that they’re at risk from things they don’t believe even exist. The ones that do believe are usually the ones that get hurt.”

“Like the guy from the bank,” Sam added, nodding, and Castiel looked up in surprise.

“You mean in Milwaukee?” he demanded, turning so he could look between the brothers. “You’re talking about that man that got gunned down by SWAT. Ronald something.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, Ronald figured out about as fast as we did that it was some kind of shapeshifter. Unfortunately for Ronald, he very wrongly thought they were these Cybermen-looking things, like Terminators or something, and he wanted to get rid of them. We were monitoring the bank from inside, posing as a maintenance crew for the camera system, when he came in strapped to hell with a whole bunch of ammo.”

That made sense. “My partner and I spent a long time trying to figure out your connection, back when we were convinced you were psychopaths.” Castiel almost couldn’t believe he could legitimately say that to someone in a light tone, and smile back when they laughed. “We thought that maybe you’d hired him to be the distraction.”

“Yeah, that was a case that went plenty wrong,” Dean said, and then laughed a little. “So much was happening that I barely remember our conversation on the phone. I do remember you not being very polite.”

“I was pretty on-edge,” Castiel explained, rolling his eyes. “I knew my brother was in the bank and, as far as I knew of you two, you were crazy psychopaths about to mow down anyone in your way. It’s just a coincidence I was even slightly near the location at the time, and that Balthazar was in there. That was one of the turning points where I was starting to think that something is weird. I mean, other than the fact I had literally seen your body get taken to a morgue, and then you kept popping up all over the grid again.”

“Ugh, that was another skinwalker,” Dean informed him, shivering. “They’re pretty gross. It has to morph and rip off skin and shed teeth and all that horror movie shit. It was so nasty.”

He dug the shovel in, and— _thunk_. Dean looked down and grinned.

“Well, looks like we found the coffin, finally,” he said. “Just gotta—shit, Sam, behind you!”

Sam was on his feet in a millisecond, and Castiel spun around to see Sam dodge a blow from the ghost, an elderly man whose face was twisted in rage. As he watched, the ghost moved so quickly it was a blur, catching Sam and sending him slamming into the trunk of the tree. Sam sprawled at the bottom at the same time Castiel was leaping out of the grave, yelling back to Dean, “Hurry!”

Dean dove back to his duties, disappearing into the grave, and Castiel grabbed for the rifle filled with rock salt that he had seen Sam loading earlier. The ghost turned to look at him, scowling, before flickering out of existence. Castiel raised the gun and kept looking around, not liking the looks of that.

The ghost appeared a couple of yards to his left and he shot it in the chest. The ghost made a growling sound but blinked out of existence, the whole cemetery going eerily quiet. Castiel kept the gun raised as he glanced around, cautious of the moment the ghost was going to pop back into thin air with a vengeance.

“Getting any closer with that salt and burn?” Castiel called to Dean, a little worriedly. Dean’s hand appeared over the grave, waving his worry away.

“Almost got it,” Dean told him right as the ghost came back, rocketing toward Castiel from his left.

Castiel fired blindly, but he was caught off-guard enough that he missed. The ghost caught him around the middle, knocking the breath out of him as he slammed into the ground. The ghost hovered above him, mouth pulled back in a rage-filled grimace, its hands gripping at Castiel’s jacket. Castiel kicked but it didn’t unseat the ghost, so he just reached out blindly, searching desperately for anything he could use to knock the ghost off of him, his hands finding nothing as the ghost’s hands closed around his throat, cutting off his windpipe.

Castiel was beginning to understand why it was much more about improvisation than method.

His hands, still scrambling, managed to catch on a rusted pole, as if there had been a sign there, and that was enough. Castiel scrambled to get a hold on it, black spots appearing in front of his eyelids, and he used one last burst of energy to swing the thing up, not even knowing if it would be made out of the right stuff, but knowing he had to do something.

The ghost screamed as it touched him and shimmered away. Castiel, laying on his back and gasping for air, stared up at Sam, who he could now see was now standing over him, a crowbar raised, expression surprised.

“Oh,” he said. “That works, too.”

Castiel let out a startled laugh that rasped in his throat and took Sam’s offered hand, letting the taller man pull him onto his feet. Castiel was barely situated and breathing normally again when the ghost reappeared, this time a couple of feet off and flickering, walking toward them with a look of rage and determination on its face, murder in his eyes. Castiel and Sam both simultaneously raised their weapons, taking a few steps back in response.

And then the ghost burst into flames.

The ghost of the elderly man wailed as it became more flame than ghost, and the blaze was so brilliant for a moment that Castiel was nearly blinded by it—and then it was over. Castiel and Sam lowered their arms as if dazed, and Castiel turned to look over at the grave. Dean was standing at the foot of it, flames dancing off of his face and a salt canister discarded at his feet. He glanced over at them and grimaced.

“Sorry,” he said. “Couldn’t get the stupid lighter to light.”

“You need to get a new one,” Sam told him with the face and tone of someone who had heard this excuse hundreds of times. “Dean, there’s dramatic, and then there’s getting suffocated by an angry grandpa.”

“I know, I know, quit your whining,” Dean replied, rolling his eyes as he leaned over to pick up the salt, shoving it in his pocket as he went for the shovels next. “Here, at the next gas station, you can be the one to buy the lighters.”

“Thanks,” Sam replied flatly before looking over at Castiel and grinning. “Congrats on your first hunt.”

“Ugh,” Castiel replied, voice a little lower, grimacing as he reached up and rubbed at his throat. “Ghosts are much faster than I thought they would be. And stronger. And much more resilient.”

“They’re a bitch,” Dean agreed as he crossed over to them, handing Castiel one of the shovels to carry. “Your throat good, grumbles?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Castiel replied as Sam fetched the gun. “So you just . . . leave it there?”

Sam looked at the grave and shrugged. “Not our problem anymore. Not to mention that if we tried to stick around to clean up, we would definitely get caught, and that wouldn’t do us any good. Especially right now.”

“What Sammy said,” Dean said, tilting his head to indicate Castiel should follow them as they headed back to the car. Feeling like he had gone a couple of rounds with a baseball bat, rounds in which the bat had won, Castiel followed, rolling his shoulders.

“I almost expected more,” Castiel confessed. Sam laughed.

“That was a calm one,” he told him. “Normally we don’t catch a lot of those—or, if we do, we leave it to less experienced hunters, but we figured it would be good practice for you. And you learned that ghosts suck, so that’s about all we’ll ever be able to teach you. Congrats, you passed one level of supernatural school.”

“Good for me,” Castiel muttered to himself and Dean, the person standing the closest to him, laughed.

“Alright, well, we’re done here,” Dean announced, dumping the shovel and salt unceremoniously into the trunk. “I say we grab a final shower, get some breakfast, and hit the road.”

“Shower,” Sam simply stated longingly, and Castiel nodded. Dean grinned back as he slammed the trunk shut, reaching into his jacket pocket for his key. Sam wandered to the front seat, but Dean lingered behind, eyeing Castiel.

“You should get strangled by a ghost more often,” Dean told him, grinning. “That voice is spectacular.”

“That’s your pick up line?” he demanded flatly. “Honestly?”

“Hey, it got you to talk, didn’t it?” Dean replied, winking exaggeratedly with a sneaky smile before he started toward the front seat, leaving Castiel standing like an idiot at the trunk. Castiel rolled his eyes to himself as he headed for his own door, pulling it open and crashing down onto the seat, feeling much more tired from their all-nighter than he was altogether expecting.

As the Impala rumbled to a start under him and the rock crooned softly from the radio, Castiel leaned his head against the glass and closed his eyes, letting himself yawn and accept the tiredness weighing under his skin, feeling safe in a car with two people he had once hunted but now hunted with, but the tides were changing. Everything was shifting into place, changing in ways both good and bad—but with the feeling of newfound camaraderie fresh on his mind, as well as the moment of the look in Dean’s eyes after their kiss, Castiel couldn’t help but to look forward to what the world was about to throw at him next.

He ignored the instinct telling him it was just the calm before the storm, and kept breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com
> 
> xo Kay


	17. Talk About It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy almost 2016! I know this has taken forever and I promised it like a month ago, but I genuinely forgot I wrote it until now, so here it is! Thanks for sticking with me, guys! It means the world.

“This is absolutely crazy,” Castiel said, feeling wild and surely looking it, too, “but hear me out.”

“Oh boy,” Bobby grated, looking unconvinced, but nodding despite his reluctance. “Alright, lay it on me.”

“I think I know how to save Dean,” Castiel confessed, setting the file of his scribbled notes down onto the table. It had been a few weeks since his hunt with the Winchesters, including his tragically non-repeated make-out with the eldest brother, and ever since then, Castiel had been losing himself in research. The only thing that had allowed him to keep the general days was Bobby forcing food down his throat and muttering threats Castiel rather believed if he didn’t get some sleep.

Castiel had spent a lot of time looking through the facts, trying to find something that might work. He should have been spending time looking at the impossible, and considering that as well.

“I found this spell,” Castiel explained to Bobby, feeling a little jittery from his tenth cup of coffee. Bobby nodded slowly, urging him to go on. Castiel patted the cover of the tome he had uncovered said spell in and continued, “Well, I suppose you could call it an incantation, but that’s neither here nor there. Either way, it’s a process that could possibly work, but be entirely dangerous to perform. It might not clear up the problem with Lilith, but it might end up being enough to save Dean’s life.”

“Spit it out, boy,” Bobby commanded.

“I want to summon Death.”

The kitchen went so silent that Castiel could hear the stuttering hum of the ancient refrigerator. He gazed across the space of the table at Bobby, whose face had gone very still, and waited, anticipating a negative response and allowing it to play out as it would.

Bobby opened his mouth before slowly closing it, looking like he didn’t even know how to begin calling Castiel the biggest idiot in the world.

“Death,” Bobby said slowly, like he wasn’t sure he had heard right. “You mean _Death_ Death.”

Castiel nodded. Bobby continued to stare.

“You’ve gotta be joking,” Bobby responded.

“I’m not,” Castiel assured him, pointing down toward the book. “I found a way to summon him and, if this works, Death could potentially side with us and secure Dean’s soul, thus ensuring his life. The problem is, there’s also the probability that Death, if Death can be summoned at all, will not like being bothered, and will kill us on the spot. So, yeah. I guess it’s an option.”

“You guess,” Bobby echoed incredulously, almost astonished. “You’re serious about this.”

“Yes,” Castiel said. “I am.”

The older man reached up and rubbed his face, groaning. “Maybe there’ll come a point where my life won’t be bat-shit crazy.”

“With what I’ve seen so far, that seems unlikely,” Castiel offered helpfully, a statement in which caused Bobby to snort. The man dropped his hands and pulled Castiel’s file of notes over toward him, flipping over to the first page and starting to read through it silently. Castiel sat there without speaking, allowing Bobby to process the information as he chose to, practically vibrating with energy.

They both knew that time for Dean was slowly and steadily running out, thus adding to all of their added jumpiness and persistent anxiety. Castiel hadn’t been able to sleep some nights, thinking about it, knowing that there was something that he could do but he just didn’t know what, and not knowing wasn’t going to save Dean. Bobby had been jumpier than usual lately, too; Sam called twice a day instead of once every couple of days, casually asking if they’ve found anything and sounding so disappointed every time they had to tell him nothing yet.

It was crazy, this idea, and they both knew it. Anyone with common sense would know that they shouldn’t put their money on this being their best chance, but it had been so long without finding anything that this almost felt like a breath of fresh air. It was almost like it was even enough to give them a chance, just a little bit.

Even if it was probably going to kill them all.

Bobby didn’t seem able to move past that fact, just staring at Castiel incredulously like he was waiting for Castiel to figure out what a huge fool he is being. Fortunately for Bobby, Castiel already knew.

“Look, I know it’s not the best idea,” Castiel told him, holding his hands out in a plea for Bobby just to keep seated and listen, “but you and I both know that we are running out of options. There’s nothing left, and we don’t have time to keep looking for anything else. If we play our cards right, this could work.”

“Or,” Bobby said, “Death could hear us summon him and decide not to show. Or he could blow us off of the map for thinking we could control him.”

Castiel allowed that. “There’s nothing left. If you have a better idea, then I’m all ears—but we’ve got weeks, Bobby. Not months. _Days_. And I think it’s safe to say we’re out of logical options.”

Bobby stared at him for a while, slowly shaking his head like he was looking at the stupidest human on the face of the earth. Castiel didn’t even feel offended, didn’t even try to defend himself. He was so tired of failing, and he was absolutely desperate for a solution, desperate to not have to watch Dean die right before his eyes when he’s already come so far, when he finally got him back. When something seemed to be happening, whether it was permanent or not.

As if he could read his mind, Bobby sighed heavily, reaching up and rubbing one of his hands over his eyes, shielding him from having to look at Castiel as he said, “I can’t believe I’m sayin’ this, but I think we should give a go.”

It took Castiel a moment.

“Really?” he demanded, honestly surprised even though it was the response he had been hoping for. Bobby gave him a weary look and Castiel worked a little harder to school his expression into something slightly more controlled and professional. He gestured toward the book. “Would we be able to do a spell like that?”

“It doesn’t look too bad on paper,” Bobby admitted almost reluctantly, reading it over again with narrowed eyes. “We’re gonna have to get Sam and Dean to stop in for some shopping for ingredients but it’s not impossible.”

“Shopping?” he asked, confused, and then realized by the look on Bobby’s face what he meant. “Oh. You mean theft. Right.”

Bobby continued to stare at him carefully. “How long has it been since you last slept, kid?”

Castiel and Bobby, while not exactly best friends, had still been living and working in close proximity to the other for several weeks now. Their conversation might not stray far from what they were doing and Castiel knew basically nothing about Bobby as a person other than his habits, but their living arrangement was enough that Bobby had learned very quickly as to Castiel’s sleeping habits. But, more than that, Bobby was able to tell really quickly the days where it was acting up, and Castiel was beginning to lose some of his coherency.

Castiel hadn’t been able to sleep in days. He wondered if Bobby was going to notice, or, at least, mention it. One of the things Castiel quickly came to like about Bobby was that he didn’t hover and nag, and just left Castiel be. They let each other have their unhealthy habits, for better or for worse.

Castiel breathed out slowly, reaching up to run a hand through his hair, Bobby watching him. Sure, Bobby didn’t nag, but he also wasn’t afraid to speak up when he was a little more worried than usual.

“It’s been a while,” Castiel admitted practically against his will. He sighed. “I haven’t been able to relax. Time is running out. I know Sam’s the same way—we’re both too restless.”

“You both aren’t doing us any good by not getting sleep,” Bobby told him, not suggested, giving him a stern look. “I’ll call the idiots. But if I hear you up there pacing like you do every night, I’m gonna come up the stairs and pistol-whip you until you’re unconscious.”

Surprised, Castiel laughed. “I don’t think that would help much.”

“Probably not, but it would put _my_ mind at ease.”

Castiel just rolled his eyes at the older man, pushing himself onto his feet. “Fine. I’ll lay down, shoes off and everything, but I can’t guarantee sleep.”

“I don’t want to see you down here for another five hours,” Bobby told him, shooing him away with his hands. “Get. Lemme see what I can do with this fuckin’ ridiculous plan.”

Castiel ignored the remark and decided to surrender, tiredness pulling at his limbs. He was so tired lately, always so worried, and it was like the stress was sucking the life out of him. It had been a while since he had been in a situation like this, the work different enough that his habits shifted. Falling back into the same one he followed for years, ever since the fire, made him wonder how the hell he had even done it.

He had been so unhealthy then, so driven by his hysteria and obsession. It was like a whole other world to be able to slow down, to breathe, to think about a million other things other than just the one.

What a world it was, to be able to be free. What a world it was, to consider summoning Death as an actual option to save a man Castiel had loved since they were kids.

Castiel was asleep practically the moment his head hit the pillow.

~*~

Dean stared at them, face blank.

“Death?” he demanded flatly.

“Yup,” Castiel replied, voice chipper, not showing Dean how worried he felt by his reaction. Now that it was possible, or at the very least plausible, all they needed was for Dean to agree to their crazy plan. That was the most important part. By the look on Dean’s face, that was going to be just as hard of a sell as they all had figured it would be.

“Death?” Dean demanded again, shifting his gaze accusatorily around at the others in the room, landing on Castiel, Sam, and Bobby sharply one after the other. “Which one of you brainiacs came up with this idiotic plan?”

Sam and Bobby instantly turned to Castiel, effectively throwing him under the bus. Dean turned to him too, his faced carved down into a scowl.

“It could work,” Castiel tried to plead with him, holding his hands up. “Don’t give me that look.”

“It’s crazy,” Dean pronounced, as if they hadn’t all established that before proposing the idea to him in the first place. “You guys can’t be serious about this. This is suicide.”

“Well, it might not be,” was Castiel’s best defense.

Dean sent him a flat look. Sam decided to give Castiel a short reprieve, stepping forward and dragging his brother’s attention back to him.

“Listen, Dean, this is about all we’ve got,” Sam told him solidly, his voice very carefully measured. “Hellhounds are coming for you in _thirteen days_ , Dean. We don’t have a whole lot of time left and if this has to be the crazy risk we take, then we’re going to take it. If we don’t, you’re going to die.”

Sam had told Castiel how Dean used to tell him that there was no point in trying to save someone like him, that it would be better if they just let him die. Castiel had expected something like that to come out of Dean’s mouth then, bracing for impact, his hands curling into the chair as he waited for it. And then Dean glanced nervously at Castiel, like he was checking to make sure he was still there, before he turned back to Sam, swallowing hard.

“You guys could die too if we do this,” Dean said slowly, uneasily, “and that’s not worth it.”

“We’re not going to stand by and let you die, son,” Bobby said solidly, reminding them of his presence on the edge of the action, listening passively. Dean rounded on his foster father and they stared at each other sternly for a long moment before Bobby said strongly, “We’re not. Understood?”

Dean and Bobby stared each other down for another moment. And then Dean looked away, anxiously running a hand through his hair.

“Everything is ready for us to set up,” Sam told him simply, eyeing him. “But we’re waiting on your say-so.”

“You’ll do it even if I don’t want you to, won’t you?” Dean demanded, but he wasn’t looking at Sam—he was looking dead at Castiel suddenly, eyes suspicious. Castiel met his gaze.

“Probably,” he responded, keeping it honest, because he knew now wasn’t the time for lies.

Dean scowled at him, glaring. He looked around at all of them for a moment, like he was deciding who he was going to chew into, before he ended up rounding on Castiel, pointed at him severely.

“We need to talk,” he growled, grabbing Castiel by the arm and tugging him out behind him, not allowing for a word of protest. Castiel glanced back at Sam and Bobby, expression begging for their assistance, but they were too busy giving each other eyebrow-raised expressions to notice. Castiel, grimacing, turned back to face Dean’s back, which was looking mighty tense.

Dean yanked Castiel behind him as they went out into the backyard, walking a handful of yards out into the pile of junk cars before Dean stopped, rounding on him, one big thundercloud of displeasure and irritation.

“You can’t be serious,” Dean accused for what had to have been the fiftieth time today. Castiel gave him a flat look, starting to get a little tired of having to constantly explain himself when they all knew why he was doing what he was doing.

“Dean,” Castiel said slowly, tiredly, “I won’t let you die.”

“I get that,” Dean replied, but his mouth turned down at the corners like a part of him didn’t understand, actually, but he wasn’t interested in asking. “But this—do you really think it’s worth it?”

“I think it’s as worth it as anything else we’ve come up with. We have to _try_.”

Dean turned away from him for a moment, collecting himself, before he turned back. He looked so tired, like he was already dead already, like he was sick of having to witness everyone suffer because of him.

Castiel could get that. He had tortured his own family for long enough, and now he had to live knowing that they were still being tortured. He was just as done with letting the people he cared about suffer as Dean was. But what Dean didn’t understand is that Castiel was happy to struggle with this, happy to suffer for Dean in this way, because he cared about him that much.

“Dean,” Castiel interrupted before Dean could start in on him, reaching up and rubbing his face. He’d only gotten five hours of sleep in the last couple of days, and he was beginning to feel it. He looked up and didn’t speak again until Dean met his eyes, making sure he was listening. “We’re going to do this. There is no other way to save you. Even if you think we’re only doing this out of a sense of purpose, don’t. We want you to live, and we’re willing to take this chance if it means there’s a chance of you walking away. Please just let us make that decision.”

Dean stared at him, surprise creeping onto his face but quietly domineered by unease. Castiel just studied his reaction, preparing himself to respond accordingly.

And then Dean did something that surprised him—he stood down.

Dean’s shoulders relaxed as he took a big breath, his expression troubled but steady. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if questioning his sanity, before he opened them with a new determination, looking straight at Castiel. He shook his head a little bit, like he really wanted to refuse, but he didn’t. Instead, he closed the three steps between them and grabbed Castiel’s shoulders, holding him firmly, his face a handful of inches away.

Dean breathed out, and Castiel felt it on his lips. His stomach burst with nerves.

“Fine,” Dean murmured, sighing out a breath and leaning his head forward until his forehead was against Castiel’s, squeezing his shoulders again. “Fine. Just—if it gets too dangerous, at any goddamn time, we abandon it. Even if it means I die. If it becomes a deal and Death asks for something that is too valuable to give him, then we walk away. Promise me that.”

Castiel had no intention of keeping a promise like that, because they both knew that Death wasn’t going to let Dean off of his deal from the good of his heart—but he was sick of fighting. So he just sighed and nodded slightly, letting Dean believe it, and he got the guilt of watching a beatific smile spread across Dean’s face, relief clearly written in the green in his eyes. Castiel smiled back, bluffing his way to the end of this constant poker game, knowing he would do whatever he could to keep Dean Winchester’s good heart beating.

“Thank you,” Dean murmured, and then shifted forward so close that Castiel’s head spun, his eyes flickering shut just so they wouldn’t have to cross to look at the man in front of him. “Cas.”

Dean kissed him, softly, and then pulled away. Castiel let him, opening his eyes slowly, every single moment feeling a little like he’s seconds from being electrocuted. Dean let his shoulders go slowly, running his hands down until he met Castiel’s fingers, giving them a soft squeeze before dropping entirely back at his sides, looking strangely empty-handed.

Dean looked back toward the house, trepidation creasing his forehead.

“Alright,” he sighed, reaching out only to grab Castiel’s hand in his. “Let’s get this over with. Looks like Death is coming for dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com
> 
> xo Kay


	18. When We Were Young

“Alright,” Sam said from the other side of a large Latin tome, the energy of the words he had just cried in the air still ringing like reverberating tin. “That should be it.”

They waited. Dean, sitting on the kitchen table just outside of the action, sarcastically looked around, like he was expecting Death to be waiting in the corner. Castiel and Bobby exchanged confused, concerned looks but instead turned back to Sam as he closed the book and set it on the table, frowning.

“Huh,” Sam said. “That should have worked.”

Dean opened his mouth to say something sarcastic at the same time another voice, not one of theirs, chipped in from the window, dark and threatening and displeased, “I do hope there’s a good reason you’ve bound me.”

They whirled to face the source of the noise, all of them caught off guard. Instantly, they all turned to the window to find a gaunt older gentleman standing there, wearing all black and a deep scowl with his black hair combed back, skin pale. He raised his eyebrows expectantly at them, expression cold, and raised his arms, which were bound with heavy-looking metal manacles on his thin wrists, symbols carved into the metal.

Sam, wide-eyed, turned to look at Castiel like maybe he was absorbing this better, but Castiel was definitely appropriately taken aback at the sight of a human manifestation of something larger than life standing a handful of feet in front of them, the actual creature of death. Literal Death was standing right there. Castiel started to feel ill at the realization, even though it had been his idea all along.

Death’s eyes suddenly cut over to Dean as if he had spoken, his thin lips curling up into a smirk.

“Ah,” Death said. “Your soul has been claimed. I’m here because you want it back.”

“Well,” Dean replied weakly, “I suppose there’s no point lying.”

Death didn’t grace that with a response. He instead swiveled his head around the room curiously, landing on Bobby and Sam for long moments of staring curiosity before it shifted to Castiel. And then the strangest thing happened.

Death laughed.

“Hello again, Castiel Novak,” Death told him, smirking in amusement. “I should have known you would be here.”

Castiel blinked at the man larger than men, his head suddenly spinning. Now the other three were staring at him, their eyes wide. Dean’s mouth was actually hanging open, like his question had frozen in his throat. Sam looked a bit like he had been sucker punched in the stomach, startled, but Bobby just looked weary.

Castiel looked in between them before dragging his gaze back to Death, ignoring the way his stomach flipped when he met the man’s dark, empty gaze. “We’ve met before?”

His voice came out a little shakier than he had expected it to. Death pretended not to notice it, his gaze on Castiel both intense and extremely unnerving. Death shifted a step closer to him, and Castiel didn’t miss the way Dean mirrored the step, inching closer to Castiel as if to protect him.

“Of course we’ve met, Castiel,” Death told him, still amused. “You’ve died before, haven’t you?”

Castiel didn’t respond. He figured the answer was clear enough.

“Tragic, our last meeting,” Death told him thoughtfully, tilting his head to the side. He glanced around at the others in the room before his gaze rested again on Castiel, smiling knowing. “And to think that you still do not know the truth of what happened that day.”

“A psychopath I had been hunting shot me,” Castiel deadpanned. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

But Death was still smiling, just the corner of his mouth curled up in a patronizing way. “Is that right?”

Castiel’s mouth went dry. As he watched, Death glided another step closer to him, lifting the cane he gripped in his hand until it was pointed at Castiel’s chest, right at the spot where his scar was.

“Pow,” Death said.

And suddenly they were all somewhere else. They were still standing in Bobby’s living room, Castiel’s feet still firmly planted on the rug and the others spread out around him, but they also—weren’t. For one disorienting moment, there was nothing but a blur, like moving fast in a car or a train that’s launching off the tracks—and then—

And then there was a suddenly familiar scene, like a scratch in the back of his brain. Castiel blinked in the sunlight, there but not there, and looked around, not seeing the others but knowing they were there, knowing he wasn’t there but being there.

“Castiel,” a familiar voice said, and his stomach dropped.

They were standing in a rural area, with just a house in front of them. It was old, dirty, a farmhouse not getting much tender love and care anymore. There were two figures standing at a black SUV in the driveway by him, as if he was looking at it through a camera, filming the unsuspecting. One of the figures looked away from the house and back at the woman standing by the driver’s side door, gazing at him nervously over the hood.

“Castiel,” a Naomi from years ago said again, her bangs falling over her face, her outfit much more casual, before everything had gone off the rails. She was wearing lipstick, her eyes kinder. She was practically another person then, both of them new to the field and excited to prove they deserved their spot. Castiel had almost forgotten that there was a time that Naomi had been sweet and softer.

Castiel looked at the house and knew that this was the day that everything would change.

The Castiel standing in another time, in a memory, blinked, focusing back on her. He smiled sheepishly at her.

“Sorry,” Memory Castiel apologized, shaking his head. “I was just wondering how much longer this witch hunt is going to take.”

“Hopefully not too long,” Naomi agreed, grinning at him. “Nervous?”

Memory Castiel grinned back at her. It had been when he was younger, around mid-twenties, when his hair was a little longer and he was skinnier than he was bulky and he slept full nights. It had been when his family wasn’t worried about him constantly and when he wasn’t constantly absorbed in his own obsessions, before the surgeries and the recoveries and the way he flinched at every sudden loud noise for months and months.

Castiel was starting to feel a little nauseous. He knew the others were there, too, somewhere in this memory, watching the same way he was, but he didn’t want them to be. He knew what happened next, and the thought made him wish he could close his eyes and ignore it, but that didn’t seem a possibility in his current out-of-body state.

“Of course I’m not nervous,” Memory Castiel replied. “I’m a professional.”

“You’re so not,” Naomi teased him, falling into step with him as they moved toward the house, Castiel of the present hovering with them, not needing to move, just keeping up with them. “This shouldn’t take long. We just have a couple of questions and then we can get the hell out of here and find someplace that has French toast.”

“Aarons, you are reading my mind,” Memory Castiel replied, smirking, just before a sudden piercing scream from inside of the house shattered all of the ease of the operation.

Their reactions were immediate, Naomi and Memory Castiel both rushing to duck for cover, on either side of the front door, reaching for their firearms and not even considering moving until they both readily had them available. Memory Castiel glanced to Naomi and she nodded, and he quickly moved and kicked the door open, the wood slamming into the wall behind it as he and Naomi surged into the house, their firearms held in front of them, ready to shoot.

Without needing to speak, the ease that had come with them back in those early days before this exact moment, Naomi immediately began checking the rooms on the ground floor as Memory Castiel moved for the stairs, taking every corner sharp, ready to fire. Castiel’s vantage point followed himself up the stairs, to the first door on the left, where Memory Castiel made the worst inevitable mistake he had ever made.

He kicked open the door.

Instantly, the moment the door swung open, there was the crack of a gunshot, before he had even had a chance to react. Castiel felt significantly more sick as he watched the past version of himself stop dead, stumbling, eyes flying wide as the bloody wound on his chest spread rapidly, losing blood too fast. He fell to the ground hard, the gun skittering across the ground. It was almost more horrifying, watching it this way, watching the way he dropped and the blood and being able to hear the phantom scream of “No!” that escaped a spectating Dean following the gunshot.

Naomi yelled his name from downstairs, but him from all of those days ago was already on the ground, choking on the blood attempting to drown him, losing consciousness fast. He could still remember the pain, the way the world had gone too black.

But living in Castiel’s head meant that they were only to see a certain bit of it until a point where it all went black, and even he didn’t fully know what happened. Seeing it like this showed the figured at the window drift forward like time was on his side, an older man with combed back hair, and Castiel watched this man approach his dying body, his gaze thoughtful.

It wasn’t until Castiel heard another of Dean’s sounds, an exaltation that sounded like surprise and horror, that Castiel saw what Dean was seeing—the man had yellow eyes.

The man paused at Castiel’s dying body, bleeding out, looking down at him. He shook his head, as if it was such a pity.

“No hard feelings, kid,” the man said, and smirked—and then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone.

Castiel stared in surprise as his body slumped, unconscious, half-dead on the ground in another time. Castiel hadn’t remembered this part. He didn’t remember the person who shot him, never having seen his face, and certainly not knowing that he had ever spoken to him. Castiel felt the shock as something icy cold in his chest, even when Naomi ran into the room, gun raised, and saw him before screaming his name, dropping to her knees.

And then the scene changed again, with just as little warning as it had the last time. One second they were in that farmhouse and then everything was even brighter, sterile white, knowing it was a hospital room before they could see. Castiel blinked away the light, listening to the flat line and the chaos, and then they were crisply observing another scene that Castiel had never been able to see—and one that he never wanted to.

From the operating table, blood spattered over his skin, Memory Castiel was lying limp, unresponsive, as the heart monitor stayed at a flat line, showing that his heart had stopped. The doctors and nurses were bustling around him, grabbing paddles and trying to recall him to life, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to fight fate.

And then there was Death.

Death was standing before him, off from the action, his head tilted to the side in curiosity. It took Castiel a moment to realize that Death was looking at him, a projection of him, looking like the ghost that he and the Winchesters had fought a couple of weeks ago, there but not there. Ghost Castiel was staring at his body frantically, watching himself die in the cruelest fashion.

“You can’t let me die!” Ghost Castiel yelled at Death, looking terrified. “You have to do something!”

“Relax, Mr. Novak,” Death told him, sounding calm, but he kept looking at Castiel like he was the most curious thing, even as Ghost Castiel pulled at his hair and stared horrified at his dead body, looking worse for wear. Castiel’s stomach dipped, and he suddenly wished he had never known any of this, had never had to watch any of this.

He didn’t want to know this about himself. He didn’t want to know what happened in those events. He had just wanted to live, and he was happy with the knowledge that, even after complications, he had.

“I know that you will not remember this, but you have to understand, Mr. Novak, that I am very curious about you,” Death told Ghost Castiel earnestly, interest casting a light flicker of firelight in his eyes. “You have the most interesting destiny. I couldn’t help but to be curious.”

“Destiny?” Ghost Castiel demanded, and then shook his head, deciding he didn’t want to know. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I don’t know what’s happening.”

Death seemed surprised by that. He took a step forward, staring at him solidly.

“Is that right?” Death asked, suddenly intrigued, before he took a slow step back, expression shifting into contemplation. “My, he was right—you do forget more and more every time.”

“Who—?” Ghost Castiel began, and then cut himself off. “Can you just _do_ something?”

“In a moment,” Death allowed as the doctors continued to scramble behind them for a semblance of Castiel’s heartbeat. “You are very fascinating to me, Castiel. You stand with such a significance in time, with Dean and Sam Winchester at your side.”

Ghost Castiel’s face flooded with confusion, and then realization. He turned toward Death, stopping pacing, and demanded incredulously, almost sounding small, “Dean Winchester?”

“You’ll help save his life, one day,” Death told him. “So that’s why you will live today.”

Ghost Castiel looked more confused than ever. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to,” Death replied, smirking knowingly. “All that matters is I do.”

Death snapped his bony fingers, and then Ghost Castiel was gone, and the heart monitor picked up a rate again, slow but steady, and one of the nurses cried, relieved, “We’ve got a pulse!”

And then it was over, just like that.

Castiel gasped for air, coming back to reality so suddenly that it nearly knocked him off of his feet and he had to grab for the table to keep him upright. He didn’t even have the state of mind to look at the others to see their reactions before he was staring up at Death, his stomach rolling.

“Why did you make me relive that?” Castiel demanded, angry, and hated that his voice shook with his own weakness, his own fear. “Wasn’t once enough?”

“There were things that you had to know,” Death explained, “and things that your friends were due to know, as well.”

Castiel took a few breaths to find his footing, waiting until the world stopped feeling like he was on a boat, before he pushed himself to his feet, turning to look at the others.

He expected them to look sad, pitying. What he wasn’t expecting was the white-faced horror on the brothers’ faces, and the way Bobby was looking at Castiel like he very well might be a ticking time bomb. Castiel blinked up at them, taken aback.

“What does he mean?” Castiel demanded, trepidation and a splash of fear that felt a lot like what Dean’s scream had sounded like as Memory Castiel fell to the ground. Dean, looking pale and like he was moments from calling the whole thing off, turned to glance at Sam. Sam stared back at him, mouth pressed tightly together like he was moments from being sick.

For a moment, no one said anything, all of them daring the other to do it. And then Dean took the plunge, sighing deeply and heavily before looking up to meet Castiel’s eyes, his unfathomable.

“That guy that shot you,” Dean said slowly, voice choked at the mention of the event, but he soldiered on, swallowing heavily. “That guy—he wasn’t a guy. We know him.”

“Yellow Eyes,” Sam softly offered.

“Yellow Eyes,” Dean agreed with a weight to the words that stuck to the air like hatred. “His real name is Azazel. He was a demon—he was _the_ demon. He killed our mom, that night in Lawrence, and he killed our dad of a bogus heart attack after that car crash.”

Castiel felt a kick to his chest, right where the scar was. He looked in between Sam and Dean, feeling the pieces sliding into place. His stomach turned, and he didn’t want any of it to be true.

“Wait,” Castiel barely managed to say louder than a whisper. “Are you trying to tell me—that guy was a _demon_ , and he shot me because of you somehow?”

Dean flinched like the words were a knife but nodded.

“There would be no other reason he would be interested in you,” Sam told him, running a shaky hand through his hair. Sam looked like, if he smoked, this would be the moment where he would need a whole pack.

Castiel looked between Dean and Sam. They looked back at him, but even Dean refused to meet his eyes.

“Okay,” Castiel concluded slowly, feeling moments from vomiting, nausea churning in his stomach. “Okay. So he shot me because of you guys. Not much we can do about it now, so let’s move on from that—but why? Why the hell would he want to stop me?”

“Because of this,” Death chimed in. Castiel flinched, somehow having forgotten he was there, the skeleton-thin man staring at him with an unnerving intensity. “When we first spoke in the hospital, I told you of the destiny—I couldn’t help it. It seems, though, by telling you that Dean Winchester was involved, it brought back your fascination with tracking him down. My apologies.”

Castiel just stared.

“In the timeline of events, by the way,” Death said, targeting his words to the brothers, “Castiel was shot several years before you encountered Azazel again. It was a preeminent strike and, frankly, too much hassle to explain to you further. Azazel knew he would be important in the future, so he figured he would get rid of him sooner rather than later. Thus is the problem with the dimwits of hell.”

“Well,” Dean drawled, blinking at Death, “at least even this dude isn’t a fan of the basement.”

Death glanced into the kitchen curiously before turning to Bobby.

“I don’t suppose you have anything to eat,” Death said. Bobby stared at him for a moment, truly incredulous, before he snapped his mouth shut, narrowing his eyes.

“Didn’t realize you needed a buffet ready,” Bobby muttered, but instantly walked into the kitchen, scouring the cabinets. “Anything in particular, princess?”

Death’s eyes narrowed at the nickname. Bobby seemed to catch himself and grimaced just in time for Death to say, stony, “I do hope the pizza delivery service is adequate here. I daresay I have never dined here in Sioux Falls.”

“Huh,” Dean said. “He’s a foodie.”

“He is also right here,” Death pointed out very pretentiously, raising his eyebrows. “So, I showed you a little secret—you’re very welcome, by the way, I don’t think you realize how important my contribution has been to your . . . cause. Now, I would like to get to the root of why I have been summoned and chained here.”

“Jeez, I haven’t recovered from that trip down memory lane yet,” Castiel replied, trying to hide the shortness in his breath. He gazed down at Death, who had seated himself very comfortably on the sofa. Not once did Castiel consider asking a creature as old as the world to move, even though he was in his spot. “I’m sure you know why we summoned you.”

Death waved a hand dismissively. “Of course I do. John sold his soul for Dean, Dean sold his soul for Sam; it’s all a great big self-sacrificing mess of untreated codependency issues. But I want to hear you say it out loud.”

Dean and Castiel exchanged a look before Sam shrugged, sitting himself down in one of the armchairs. Castiel lowered himself into the last free one, leaving Dean standing stubbornly with his arms crossed in between he and Sam, like a bodyguard, or a child having a tantrum. Death sat there, waiting patiently, having all the time in the world to play this intimidation game. Castiel figured he could probably just wait and force the Winchesters to do it out of necessity, but this whole emotionally traumatic scenario was his mess, so he might as well take the initiative for it.

“We would like to ask you to free Dean from his contract,” Castiel told Death very carefully, speaking with the voice he usually only used when testifying in a case. Death’s mouth twitched, like he noticed and wanted to laugh, but otherwise his expression did not betray anything.

“And?” Death demanded. Castiel tilted his head.

“And what?”

“And you would like to ask me, a creature of true neutrality, to turn around and betray the demons for whom have walked this earth longer than your body will take to rot in it?”

Sam grimaced. Castiel couldn’t see Dean’s perspective from where he was sitting, but he assumed that it was very grumpy.

“Yes,” Castiel replied.

“Okay,” Death said back, sounding chipper, just as Bobby walked back into the room. “Food?”

“Twenty minutes, hold your horses,” Bobby replied. He then cursed. “Damn. That was a pun.”

“It was,” Death agreed. “It was a very good one, especially unintended.”

Bobby stared at him very dryly. “Thanks.”

“Wait,” Sam said, drawing Death’s attention back to them. “ _Okay_? That’s it?”

“Sure,” Death said. “I don’t like the demons much. They do kill a lot, but they’re also pesky little beasts. And the demon that holds Dean’s contract happens to be perhaps the absolute least favorite of mine of all of the species. It would be a pleasure mildly inconveniencing her.”

“Wow,” Dean remarked sarcastically, “good to know that saving my life would only be _mildly inconveniencing_.”

“She is a very busy she-demon,” Death argued primly.

Castiel still didn’t understand that all of this was happening at all. This time last year, he was a straight-laced federal agent. Now he was sitting across the room from Death as they waited for the pizza delivery guy to show.

“It can’t be that easy,” Castiel decided, staring down Death. “This has to either be a trick, or you’re just not telling us the bottom line.”

“Well, well, well,” Death said. “Look who has a brain. Of course there’s more than that. Even tied up, I’m not just going to hand over a favor willy-nilly.”

Of all the inane phrases in the human language, Castiel was somehow mostly entertained by Death casually using “willy-nilly” in daily conversation.

“Okay, fine,” Castiel said. “What do you want us to do?”

Death smiled. It was not a happy expression. “It’s very simple. One of you must become me for twenty-four hours.”

Castiel felt a “but” coming on.

“But,” Death continued, “in order to do so, there are a list of conditions. Small ones—relax, Dean. One is that whomever takes my place must wear my ring for the full time; wearing my ring is how I work, basically. You need it in order to claim the souls, and to hand them off to a reaper to ferry them to their correct destination. By wearing my ring, that means that you must kill everyone who is necessary, and I mean _anyone_. Whether it is a plane crash or a sweet old lady, all you have to do is touch them and they are dead. If you take off that ring at any time in those twenty-four hours, the deal will be null and void, and I will be freed from this trap that I do not know how you were able to access.”

They continued to stare.

“That is all,” Death thoroughly dismissed them, using one cuffed hand to remove a large ring from one of his fingers, setting it down on the table. Castiel looked down at it, ivory white, like it was made of bone. His skin crawled at the thought that it probably was. Death raised his eyebrows. “So? Any takers?”

“I’ll do it,” Dean immediately volunteered, just like Castiel knew he would. “It’s my contract and my problem, so I’ll do what it takes to solve it. You all have done enough.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Sam replied, scowling at his elder brother. “I’m the reason you even made the deal.”

“Oh yeah, totally your fault,” Dean sarcastically responded. “You totally stabbed yourself in the back, I forgot.”

“Dean, come on, this shouldn’t be a fight.”

“It is, because I’m _not_ letting you do this, Sam. You’ve been through enough.”

“And you _haven’t_?”

Castiel looked in between the two brothers as they started up bickering again, lobbing retorts at each other like throwing knives meant to get the other to back down. He figured they would take a while, that they would argue all night if they had to, and one glance at the resigned look on Bobby’s face told him that he was absolutely right. But it wasn’t Bobby that caught his attention, even as the doorbell rang and the older man shuffled out of the room—it was Death, sitting in the winged-back chair like a throne, his eyes on Castiel like he hadn’t looked away once.

Castiel met his gaze, startled, but Death didn’t even blink, didn’t even try to pretend like he hadn’t been staring. His eyes pinned Castiel to the spot like a butterfly to a board, and Castiel was too afraid to even blink, not understanding the intensity, trying not to think of the curious tug in the back of his mind that felt like a recollection from the statement _“he was right—you do forget more and more every time”,_ feeling like he had heard those same words before . . .

As if Death could read his mind, his lips twitched like he was going to smile. Castiel really hoped he couldn’t read his mind.

“No, Dean,” Sam said loudly, irritated, and then broke into another rant.

Death didn’t look away for a moment, as if making a point on concentrating on Castiel and keeping his focus. And then, very slowly, the being as old or older than God slowly moved his eyes away, down, until they focused. Castiel followed his gaze, curious, and went a little cold when he saw that Death was pointedly looking at the ring, silently telling him to take it.

And Castiel realized—maybe this had never been about Dean.

Death had kept pushing him in the right direction for a long time now—but why? What did Death have to gain if Dean lived, or if Castiel did? Death had interfered into their lives, keeping Castiel alive when he died more than once now, and it was all for a reason that Castiel couldn’t yet understand, but something that was clearly more than what they were supposed to know right now. Death had reminded Castiel of how he had died, and how it had always been to do with saving Dean Winchester, going so far as to call it his _destiny_ —Castiel knew that this wasn’t a choice at all.

Death had laid down that ring knowing that Castiel was the one that was supposed to take it. And Castiel, seeing that, didn’t even hesitate for a moment.

Castiel reached out and picked the ring up gingerly from the table, holding it between two fingers. Bobby was still gone, dealing with the pizza man in muffled voices, while Sam and Dean continued to argue lowly, hands flying. Castiel held up the ring, feeling the smooth ivory and thinking that it had to be bone, that Death would find no power in anything other than what was linked so close with the being he reaped, and took a deep breath, knowing that this was easily going to be the stupidest decision he has made in a long time.

He put on the ring.

Instantly, the room dropped temperature. At first, Castiel thought it was just because he was wearing the ring, but then Dean and Sam turned around, clearly feeling the change in cabin pressure, expressions confused. Both of them spotted Castiel standing dumbly in front of Death with that ring on his finger, the object having been so cold now growing warm. Dean’s expression clouded over the very moment that Bobby walked through the door, holding a large pizza in his hands.

“Delivery,” Bobby replied dryly, handing Death the pizza and looking to the brothers the second that Death started in on it, chewing happily. Bobby’s eyebrows rose. “What’s gotten into you two?”

“Cas,” Dean all but growled, “what the hell are you doing?”

“Saving your life,” Castiel replied flatly, thinking about the promise he made only an hour before about making deals with creatures that might be too fragile to keep. Castiel looked down at the ring that mysteriously fit and felt a sudden shock of déjà vu, like he had seen it before, even if it had been on a different finger.

“And so it begins,” Death began once he swallowed his bite of pizza, his eyes on Castiel as apathetic as ever, even though something told him that the being approved. Death waved a hand over his shoulder and a young woman appeared, her face round and her hair black and short, eyes very green. Sam flinched. “This is Tessa, and she is one of my reapers, low-level angels who ferry the spirits to whichever fate awaits them. You’ll be working with her for the next twenty-four hours, and it will be based on her testimony that you will either pass or fail this task. I suppose I do not need to remind you as to what’s at stake.”

Castiel glanced at Dean, who gave him a very unhappy look that read _we’ll be talking about this later_ , before Tessa stepped forward, smiling kindly.

“Here we go, handsome,” she said, and then they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com
> 
> xo Kay


	19. Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part one of this chapter! Sorry it's a little short, but yesterday I sat down and wrote out a chapter plan and this chapter was WAY too long, so I cut it off from where I had written it.

“So you’re Castiel Novak,” the reaper murmured to herself as they walked down a bustling city street, smiling to herself. Castiel kept flinching away from the people passing them by, even though he knew from experience that they neither could see or feel him as he walked straight through them, and nor did they drop dead. She turned her head over to look at him, a curious smile on her face. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Tessa hadn’t said much the last several minutes. Once she had zapped them away from the Winchesters, they had just been wandering this street in what Castiel believed was Chicago, taking all the time in the world. He tried not to look at her, a little intimidated by this force he didn’t understand, but he could practically feel her gaze on his skin.

“I don’t know why you would have,” he told her honestly, a little disturbed at the idea of a bunch of reapers sitting around the table and talking about his life. She tilted her head at him like a curious bird of prey.

“You’re a very interesting character,” she told him. “Not that you can remember it.”

“I still don’t understand what you all are talking about when you say that, no matter how much you repeat it.”

“Oh, I know,” she replied, amused, her smile entertained. “Don’t worry, it’s killing me not to just tell you, anyway. But trust me, it’s all in due time, Castiel. You won’t be left wondering for long.”

Well, that certainly sounded ominous. “Where are we going?” he asked to change the topic, not liking the cold creeping feeling like fingers curling around his ribs. She pretended not to notice, though he could tell by the turn of her mouth that she could. Tessa nodded her head toward the street ahead of them.

“We have an appointment,” she informed him. “It’s not entirely urgent, but I assume you want to get all of this done with as quickly as possible.”

She certainly wasn’t incorrect, but Castiel figured it would be impolite to say as such, so he just shrugged.

Tessa was a strange one. She moved like a human and spoke like one, but there was something _alive_ about her, something about the way she simmered. Sometimes, she was like an elaborate illusion, like water in a desert. Castiel wondered if maybe that was the deal with reapers—maybe they were the entities that people near death saw and configured to being God. If they were all like Tessa, they certainly _were_ unearthly.

Either way, she looked like a woman, and she acted like one. Castiel was quickly learning that was one of the most unnerving things about monsters.

Every glance she sent his way was chilling. He didn’t need ominous statements to know that she knew something he didn’t—it was written in her bright emerald eyes, looking at him like he was puzzle and she was wondering how he was able to contort into the future she knew to expect.

“I’m just curious,” she explained to him offhandedly, putting her hands in her pockets as they walked, as though she was cold. “But—the Winchesters, they have been around the block. I tried to reap Dean, once, in a hospital. He got away from me, and the infernal Azazel interfered. Sam—that wasn’t my work, but everyone knows what happened that day. I think we all heard the way Dean Winchester screamed.”

Castiel flinched. She wasn’t looking at him, but he knew she saw it.

“I suppose I’m just curious—Dean and Sam are well acquainted with the concept of death and losing the people they care the most about, as well as seeing complete strangers they meant to protect get brutally slayed. So why would you, a FBI agent entirely loyal to this strange cause, believe that you will be able to handle this?”

It was a fair question, all things considered. For a moment, Castiel wasn’t even sure how to answer it. He looked around at the faces as they passed by and through them, at the people with no idea that he could snag their souls out of thin air just to save one person, and he had to look away so he could catch the breath that snagged in his chest.

“I think that’s the point, isn’t it?” he asked, and she raised her eyebrows at him. “It would have been too easy for Dean, and Sam would have been too sympathetic and would hesitate. They have both experienced this loss and they know what they have to do, no matter their level of hesitation in doing it. By putting me in this position, it’s a challenge. We come out of it deserving the reward.”

“Hmm,” she replied, and nothing else.

“You don’t agree.”

“No. I do. I just didn’t think that you would see it.”

“I know how life works,” he told her, reaching up and rubbing the scar on his chest. She watched his motions.

“I knew of that, as well,” she told him. She sounded almost bemused. “I was supposed to collect your soul, but my boss stepped in and took my place. He told me that yours was an important one, and that he had a better idea.”

“So he went against orders?”

Tessa snorted. “No one gives Death orders. He does what he wants in accordance to what will be. He wouldn’t allow you to live, and for the people to die because of it, unless it meant something.”

Castiel stopped walking. Tessa pivoted on her feet to face him, still smiling pleasantly.

“What do you mean, the people who died because of it? People died in my stead?” he demanded softly, feeling the recoil of the realization snapping back, catching him off guard. Her expression didn’t change at all.

“That’s how it works, Castiel,” she informed him patiently, kindly. “If someone lives, sacrifices must be made. Reverberations in the natural order, I’ve heard them called. For one person to go against the grain, other people have to die that would have lived, because of that person being alive. It’s fate, and it’s not.”

Castiel’s head was spinning. He realized after a moment it was because he wasn’t breathing.

“So you mean—by saving me for this, Death killed more?” he demanded once he could breathe against. She nodded. “How many people?”

Tessa made a face. “That’s semantics, Castiel.”

“How many?” he demanded, aware that he sounded a little unhinged.

“A dozen,” she told him, eyeing his reaction. “Maybe a handful more. No one that you knew well enough for it to matter.”

That didn’t make him feel any better.

“That’s unnatural,” Castiel objected, feeling sick. “That’s not fair.”

“Ah, so you understand the exercise,” Tessa laughed. “That’s the point of our whole field trip, blue eyes. This is a lesson for you to learn from, as well as the Winchesters—there is a reason people die, and there is a reason they stay dead. It’s about time you three stopped playing with the natural order, and instead worked to make it right.”

Castiel stared at her. She turned around and kept walking, leaving him behind.

“Come along, Castiel,” she called over her shoulder, passive to the point of being frustrating. “We’re going to be late. Natural order. Tick tock.”

Castiel paused for a moment, stomach rolling in the unfairness of this, at how much him and the Winchesters have managed to break the world, him on accident and the Winchesters by caring too much. Castiel didn’t know how, by being a passive part of this whole ordeal, he ended up right in the middle of it.

He walked after Tessa, the ring heavy on his finger, because he knew he had no other choice.

~*~*~*~*~

“Heart attack,” Tessa told him as they watched an obese man eating a hamburger on a park bench. “That’s what kills him. Any bite now. Whenever you’re ready.”

“And where will he go?” Castiel demanded, feeling anxious, watching the man gorge on food, not knowing he is seconds away from death, from having to leave his family and friends behind forever. “Heaven, Hell?”

“I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. “That’s not my job. I just make sure they get there. Their soul leads them.”

“So he could go to Hell.”

“He probably won’t,” she allowed. “But, sure. We don’t know who he is outside of his eating habits, and the health of his heart. He could be a murderer. He could have given his whole fortune to charity. In the end, it doesn’t matter all that much.”

Wasn’t that special. Castiel took a deep breath, steeling himself.

He reached out and he touched the man on the shoulder.

The response was instantaneous, at least giving Castiel no time to attempt to take back what he knew he just did. The man instantly started clutching at his heart, having trouble breathing, the burger dropping forgotten to the ground. The man struggled to catch his breath for a handful of moments until he was still on the bench, and a ghostly impression of the man was instead standing in between Castiel and Tessa, staring at his dead body in disbelief.

“Huh,” the man said. “So that’s that.”

“Yes,” Tessa agreed. Castiel stared at the man, thoroughly taken aback by his ease in accepting his fate, but the man just kept staring at his body like he didn’t even recognize that it was him.

“Guess I should have expected that, huh?” the man asked, a little wryly, before turning his gaze on Castiel. “So, what, you’re the guy that chooses who goes and who stays?”

In essence, today he did, but Castiel still shook his head. “I’m just here when it happens,” he explained, suddenly not wanting to be the bad guy. The man nodded slowly, turning to face Tessa instead as the first people started noticing his body, a police officer having wandered over and started to prod him, as if he thought the man was sleeping.

“What happens from here?” the man demanded cautiously. “What’s in the cards, I guess?”

“I don’t know,” the reaper told him honestly, emerald eyes at once unnerving and reassuring. “That’s up to you.”

The man nodded slowly, and then took a deep breath that his ghostly lungs didn’t really have to take as the police officer radioed in for an ambulance.

“Okay,” the man said, and then he was gone.

Castiel blinked. Tessa smiled pleasantly.

“I like when they don’t make a big deal out of it,” she commented mildly, like she was just observing the weather. “It makes my job a whole lot easier. And, now, _your_ job as well.”

Castiel just kept staring at the place the man had disappeared. “Can you tell now, where’s he’s gone, now that he’s there?”

“Nope,” Tessa said. To her credit, she did sound a little mournful. “That’s still not my job, blue eyes. I don’t have to know, so I don’t, and I never really feel the need to ask. I just live with the knowledge that he went where he was supposed to have gone, and that’s the end of it.”

Castiel nodded slowly, but he was starting to feel what Death knew he would—the creeping doubt, wondering if he had just doomed an innocent person or sent them off to salvation.

They were gone before the ambulance even arrived. It wasn’t like they didn’t already know the outcome, anyway.

~*~*~*~*~

“You can’t ask me to do this.”

“Castiel,” Tessa said. “I’m not _asking_ you to do anything. This is the job you signed up for. Nobody said it would be easy.”

Castiel felt sick to his stomach. “I’ve already taken a dozen people, can’t I spare this one?”

“We talked about this,” she explained to him for not the first time, this one being the case that’s breaking his back, making his will to complete this challenge crumble to dust. Tessa looked over at the young girl, no more than seven, in the hospital bed, terminally ill with cancer, and the father sleeping dutifully at her side. Tessa didn’t look all that bothered but, yet again, if Castiel had been doing this since the beginning of time and seen so many other wrenching deaths than even the ones from today, then he probably wouldn’t feel it, either. “If you don’t, there will be consequences,” Tessa added, reminding him again why he had to do it, and why he hated that he had to.

This one struck a new chord, though. The others, those were deaths that seemed much more reasonable. A heart attack, a car crash, a couple of elderly hospice patients, a soldier—those felt like more reasonable circumstances, all of them adults whose lives had been cut short. But this, reaping a child? It wasn’t fair. A child dying was never, _ever_ fair. She hadn’t even lived yet, and he was expected to take her life anyway.

Castiel looked away from her, not being able to watch the ragged way the child’s chest lifted and fell as she tried to breathe through the tumor in her lungs. Tessa watched him sadly, sympathetically, as if she still felt it, too.

“She is in pain,” Tessa whispered. “Her father is, too, of a different kind. And he will always feel that pain. But this little girl will be free, and she will be happy, and they will see each other again.”

“It’s not fair,” Castiel whispered back, his voice shaking. Tessa didn’t argue.

“It’s what you have to do,” Tessa told him in the seconds before Castiel forced himself to cross the room, reached out toward the little girl who science couldn’t save, her and her father still sleeping peacefully, and laid his hand on her cool forehead, stealing her life away.

Castiel didn’t think he would ever forget the father’s screams when he woke up to a beeping machine, and his daughter was gone.

~*~*~*~*~

That was the turning point. The deaths went from painful to worse. Natural deaths turned into murders and suicides, and screaming people holding their loved ones as Castiel sadly pressed fingers onto their skin, taking their chances away. It became bloody car crashes and scared women getting overpowered and a child that didn’t know how to swim.

Castiel saw all of this, in his job. He knew how awful deaths could be. But even that was different when he was just the one that studied them, that tried to understand what happened. Understanding what happened and _watching_ it, knowing that they must feel the worst burst of terror and knowing he can’t save them in any other way but oblivion—that’s different.

Castiel has seen terrible things before. This was unforgivably cruel.

Tessa allowed him a break part of the way through the day, over halfway but not nearly close enough to the end. He sat down on the side of a random road, putting his head in between his knees and trying to breathe, his hands gripping his hair. She stood there next to him passively, watching him struggle.

“These are normal people,” he whispered, “and I’m taking away their chance.”

“There’s always a reason,” she assured him. “Even if it doesn’t feel like a good one.”

It was easy to say that, before. He didn’t know how she was saying it now.

“There’s something awful about dying,” he said, closing his eyes, hearing the screams of his family that he hadn’t been able to talk to in so long in the back of his head, remembering the last time they spoke and hating himself a little for it now. “It’s the people you leave behind, you know? I think it would be easier to let go when you’re unattached, when you don’t have much other than yourself, because you get to keep that. But there’s that underlying fear that, even if you pass on, that person might not follow however many years later, and it would have been goodbye without you even knowing it. I’m sure it happens, more often than not. I don’t think I would be able to live with that.”

Tessa just watched him.

“What would you have said to me, if you were the reaper that came for me that day?” he asked, not knowing why he wanted to know. She eyed him for a moment, not seeming to get it either, but seemed to figure that it wasn’t worth evading.

“I would have told you that sometimes things don’t make sense, and sometimes people do horrible things,” she told him slowly, watching him curiously. “But that wouldn’t have made you feel better. You would have resisted me—you have too much to live for. That’s why you have trouble letting go. You always think about other people long before you even start to think about yourself.”

Castiel didn’t say anything.

“That’s interesting,” she noted, a strange tone to her voice. “Very interesting.”

“Does this have something to do with the big secret?”

“Hmm,” she replied, which was certainly a good enough answer more than not, looking up at the sky. “Break’s over, Castiel. Let’s move on.”

“What’s next?” he demanded, started to feel rugged and warn out, his muscles aching even though he wasn’t doing anything physical, his chest burning like he had just run eighty miles without stopping for water. Tessa didn’t look at him, but her mouth curled up into a smile that was not kind, and maybe was even a little bit bitter.

“It’s time to understand a little bit more of your brand new world,” she told him, and whisked them away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Life has been . . . awful.
> 
> My Tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com
> 
> xo Kay


	20. Little Do You Know

Castiel thought that his day as Death couldn’t get any worse. He was wrong.

Tessa had gradually stepped up the heat throughout the day, moving from natural deaths to unnatural and devastating ones. Those, while they pained Castiel to the core, were at least somewhat bearable. He had dealt with things like that in the FBI, so it wasn’t entirely new to him. What little barriers he had been able to put up between his emotional connection and his current situation came tumbling down the second the supernatural deaths came into play.

He watched a woman get her throat ripped out by a werewolf, her screams cutting off abruptly as the animal reared back, teeth sharp and chin soaked in blood. He watched a ghost reach inside of a man’s chest and grab his heart, twisting and twisting inhumanly long until it exploded. He watched a child get lured away by a skinwalker wearing his mother’s face, only to meet the same untimely end, all because the monster felt like it.

Castiel had to stand on the sidelines and watch hunters fighting these creatures. He watched a young hunter with blonde hair shove a knife through the throat of a woman vampire who hadn’t quite gone rabid, having to make the tough choice. He watched a young man tearfully shoot his long-gone infected wife in the head to keep her from becoming more of a monster than her werewolf bite had forced her to be.

He had to steal away a middle-aged hunter’s life when he was surrounded by creatures Castiel couldn’t even name, wiping him off of the Earth despite all the good he’d done. That hunter had not gone into the afterlife quietly, and Castiel thought that he would hear the echoes of his screams, of _how could you_ , in his head for the rest of his days.

“This is cruel,” Castiel managed through a hoarse throat as they watched a thirty-something male hunter creep around a warehouse he didn’t know a transformed rugaru was waiting for him inside. Castiel and Tessa followed behind him as the man knelt down, picking the lock quietly, but his fate was signed. “They’re helping.”

“That does not give them a free pass,” Tessa pointed out calmly as the man got the door open and crept inside, holding his gun in front of him. She hovered behind him, watching impassively as the monster emerged, growling, covered in blood, hungry. “That’s Winchester logic. Just because you do good doesn’t mean you get a free pass. None such luck.”

“It doesn’t make it right, letting them die like this,” Castiel pointed out as the fight began, acid rolling in his stomach at the sounds. He turned away, refusing to look, to watch, until it was his time. “They help clear out the rubble. You’d think that the supernatural could spare them some thanks.”

“Hunters know they are in it alone from the first day, and they know that it will mean their death at the end of the line,” Tessa informed him as the man screamed in agony, falling to his knees, clutching at his lifeblood spilling from a wound in his neck. The rugaru crooned, getting ready to strike again.

“It’s not fair,” Castiel whispered as the rugaru landed another blow, quietly reaching out and grabbing the hunter’s shoulder. Instantly, the body slumped, and the man materialized by them, eyes wide, hands still gripping at his neck.

“What?” the hunter asked, and then looked at his body. “Oh, man, that’s fucking gruesome.”

“I’m sorry this had to happen,” Castiel couldn’t help but to apologize. The hunter looked at him in surprised, and then flashed him a pearly white grin, still a little caught off guard.

“It happens to the best of us, I guess,” he replied, glancing back to his body. “I’ve been doing this a long time, I knew I was going to go out at some point. Just kind of wish it had been more with a bang than a whimper, you know?”

Tessa opened her mouth to ask him if he was ready to pass on, the same way she had done with every victim, but Castiel couldn’t keep holding his tongue anymore. He couldn’t help himself, so he asked, “How long did you hunt?”

“Oh, god, I’ve gotta be coming up on fifteen years now,” the hunter replied, and then laughed. “Just about half of my life. Damn, what a ride it’s been. I’m almost looking forward to lying back a little, you know? If there’s an upstairs and I’m allowed into it, I guess. If not, then I’ll keep fighting the good old fight downstairs. I don’t know how to do anything else.”

Castiel was floored. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” the hunter replied, amused. “You’re an interesting reaper, aren’t you?”

Castiel didn’t respond, too stunned for words. Tessa spotted that and stepped in with her standard calming smile, reaching out and touching the hunter’s arm in a comforting gesture.

“Are you ready?” she asked him, and the man took one last look at his body, now becoming the rugaru’s new buffet, and nodded, taking a deep breath.

“Hit me with your best shot,” he told her, and grinned that same grin—and then he was gone.

Tessa and Castiel stood there in silence for a moment, just them and the deranged rugaru that someone was going to have to put down sometime sooner rather than later, a rugaru that he couldn’t stop from killing again even though he had the power. Castiel looked at the spot the man had disappeared and forced himself to keep breathing. Tessa watched him, her eyes clouded with a newfound anger, more of a negative emotional display that she had given him since the start of his day.

“I understand why you’re showing me this,” Castiel told her slowly, because he felt like it needed to be said out loud. “You want me to understand that yes, it _isn’t_ fair. It’s a statement of fact that nothing about this life is fair—the death of the victims, the tragedy of the monsters, and the downfall of the hunters. I understand that. You want me to learn the lesson that even if we save Dean this time, he could very easily go out tomorrow and get killed by a monster. Life is not guaranteed in hunting. It could be any one of us, at any time. We should not think ourselves above death, because we are mortal. I get it.”

“Do you?” Tessa demanded, rage still an undertone in her voice. Her eyes flashed as Castiel raised his to look at her, her face contorting into a glare she was attempting not to let take control. She looked down at her watch, ticking away the minutes until Castiel was free. “Will you look at that—your time is almost up.” She looked up at him and smiled in a way that did not promise comfort, like the ones she gave the newly dead. This one made a shiver roll up his spine as she finished, “Let’s see if you _really_ understand.”

She snapped her fingers.

Castiel blinked around them, momentarily disoriented no matter how many times Tessa spirited them away to a new location. He looked around them and found them standing in a dirty alley in a city. Police sirens could be heard echoing down the street, but otherwise there was minimal traffic on the street around, although the edges were lined with cars parked parallel to the curb. Castiel looked up and found a flashing neon sign advertising Moe’s Underground; he could feel the vibration of the bass under his feet.

“Where are we now?” he asked, a question he hadn’t indulged himself in much this last day. Tessa didn’t even look away from the door, crossing her arms over her chest.

“St. Louis,” she replied simply, leaning back against the building. “One last test, Castiel. I think you’ll find it most . . . enlightening.”

Castiel opened his mouth to ask, confusion rolling through his bones, but he didn’t have the time—the door leading from the club to the alleyway opened and a figure tumbled out, stumbling on the even ground, reaching up to fix the collar of his jacket and raising his head, blinking against the light of the streetlamps.

Castiel’s stomach dropped.

“Oh, come on, Castiel,” Tessa whispered as Balthazar straightened and started toward the mouth of the alleyway, tucking his hands in his pockets. “You didn’t think this would be easy, did you?”

“I’m not reaping him,” Castiel told her, voice shaking as hard as his hands were as they followed ten steps behind his brother, who was clueless to the two harbingers of death on his heels. Castiel felt like he was going to be sick as he declared, “I draw the line. This is _too_ cruel.”

“You’ll do what you have to do, because that’s part of the deal,” Tessa told him simply, so casual that it made raw hatred heat up in his chest. “But there’s more to this story, Castiel. How well do you know your brother?”

Castiel felt surprise and confusion hit him like a sucker punch, nearly sending him stumbling back a step. Cautiously, he continued to follow Balthazar down the streets, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets and his shoulders curled in, finally starting to wonder what his brother was doing here to begin with, knowing better than anyone that Balthazar had been living with their parents since quitting his Wisconsin job.

Balthazar turned a corner abruptly, clearly knowing where he was going well enough that he didn’t check the street signs, didn’t even look up from his gaze on his feet. Balthazar might have known perfectly well where he was going, but he didn’t notice the figure that crossed the street silently and fell into step behind him, hood pulled up and hands also in their pockets. Castiel felt the scream in his throat, but he knew it was no use to let it out.

He knew that the only way he could warn his brother, the only way he could possibly help him, would be to take off the ring. He knew what kind of trick this was. But damn if he wasn’t considering falling into it.

Suddenly, up ahead, Balthazar stopped walking. As Castiel and Tessa froze a safe distance away, her watching impassively and Castiel breathing hard in panic, the figure stopped too, only a handful of steps behind Balthazar. The figure moved their hand, the movement of someone about to pull out a knife, and Castiel’s panic flared—

And then Balthazar whirled, splashing something from a flask onto the figure, and then the figure was screaming, rearing back.

As the demon smoked from the holy water, Balthazar stood bearing down on it, his teeth standing out against the dark backdrop of the sleeping city as he grinned.

“Surprise,” Balthazar told the demon, and then pulled out a dagger from his jacket.

The demon growled before vaulting forward, launching himself at Balthazar, but he had anticipated the attack—he immediately got the upper hand, slamming the demon down onto the ground and pinning him there. Balthazar spared the demon another cheeky smirk before stabbing him in the chest with a blade like Castiel had never seen, something pearly white and almost like crystal. The demon screamed and glowed for a moment before it dimmed, and the body slumped to the concrete, dead, no soul for Castiel to reap.

“No,” Castiel breathed, shock settling thick like smoke in his chest. He stepped forward automatically as three more demons appeared on the street, their faces curled with anger and distaste, and Balthazar rose to meet them, treating it all like a cat and mouse game that he knew without a doubt he was going to win. Castiel felt himself shaking his head, denial the only thing on his mind. “No, it’s impossible. He doesn’t know.”

“He does,” Tessa informed him emotionlessly as one demon pounced, and then another, Balthazar holding them off with fight moves and strength that Castiel hadn’t even known his elder brother had. “He’s been hunting for a long time now, ever since he quit his job in Wisconsin and moved back into your parent’s house. You’ve noticed the signs—you just didn’t know how to interpret them.”

Castiel thought of his flighty older brother and the look on his face after being in that bank, swearing that something weird was going on, that Dean and Sam had told him it was a monster and he believed them. Castiel remembered back to New Years, when his mother told him that his brother kept leaving the house at random times and his father added, _He calls them road trips_.

And as Castiel watched his brother wrestle three demons at once, that strange blade of his catching in the streetlight like diamond, he wished he had known back then, because he would have begged his brother just to stay out of it all.

“He’s going to die,” Castiel heard himself say more than anything, his stomach flipping. He couldn’t look away from the fight, feeling every single punch Balthazar took, his head rattling with every time he didn’t have the upper hand. “There’s too many. He can’t take them all alone.”

“Your brother has been hunting for months,” Tessa offered unhelpfully, not in it to reassure Castiel anymore. “What happens, _happens_ , Castiel. It’s outside of all of our hands to control fate. This is the life of hunting—constant danger, and dying for the cause.”

Balthazar grunted as he took a blow to the stomach, on the ground already. He rolled away from another attack, rolling back up onto his feet, but that didn’t change how outnumbered he was. Castiel’s breath caught again as his brother took a rough punch to the jaw, sending him stumbling, and another demon pulled out a knife.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” Balthazar taunted them, true to form. There was blood on his teeth as he grinned, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. It made him look sinister, and so much unlike his brother that Castiel was starting to feel lightheaded, overwhelmed, unable to comprehend.

“He’s going to die,” Castiel said again, terrified at how much it sounded like fact. Tessa had nothing to say to that, just kept her face turned to the action, observing with her impartial mask.

The demon with the knife took a step forward as another moved to hold Balthazar in place, to keep him from struggling. Castiel staggered forward a step, but he knew there was nothing to do, nothing he could do without taking off the ring—

He reached the ring and touched it, thinking about having to watch his brother be brutally slayed here, in this place where he had no connection, all alone in the dark with a bunch of demons. Castiel couldn’t keep watching this, couldn’t stomach the thought of watching another person die doing the right thing, to know that he was ultimately the one that claimed them away. He put pressure on the ring—and then stopped.

He knew Dean and Sam and Bobby wouldn’t blame him, if he were to take off the ring right then and there. He stood there, suspended in time, heart beating loudly in his ears as he was about to watch his brother die, and he knew they would have completely forgiven him, even if it meant Dean still went to hell. They would understand wanting to save family.

And he knew he would never forgive himself if Balthazar died tonight. He would never be able to look at himself in the mirror, never be able to breathe again. Castiel knew himself, and he would probably just keep throwing himself into suicide missions until one of them eventually killed him, the sooner the better.

He had one second left to choose.

Castiel gripped the ring.

And did not remove it.

Balthazar sharply inhaled as the demon took the final step closer, bringing the knife up. And then a gunshot rang out through the street, bouncing off walls and echoing into the black sky, and the demon dropped to the ground, gasping, paralyzed.

Standing behind the smoking gun, from the other side of the street, a thin young blonde woman grinned. “Didn’t think I would leave you hanging, did you?” she asked Balthazar, her grin just as smug. One echoed on his face as well, a glint to his eyes that spelled mischief.

“I didn’t doubt you for a second, cutie,” Balthazar replied, and then he was turning, slashing the chest of the demon that held him, the one whose grip had relaxed just enough. As the other demon tried to react, the blonde leveled a shot at him as well, sending him onto the ground screaming and writhing.

Balthazar stabbed the one with the knife in the chest, and the demon stopped growling, cutting off mid-breath. The blonde jogged over to him, picking up the knife the demon dropped, and her and Balthazar stood side by side as they stared down at the last demon, whose face was contorted with a mixture of rage and pain.

“Okay,” Balthazar said, “so I kind of thought you weren’t coming.”

“Would I do that to you?” she replied, her tone teasing, but her smile was just for show. She turned to the demon, her smile twisting into a scowl. She held up the gun until it was centered on the demon’s head, a kill shot. “Listen up, demon. These bullets are carved with devil’s traps. This won’t kill you, but it’ll hurt like mighty hell, and I’ll leave you that way for a good while before we kill you—but only if you don’t answer our question.”

Balthazar knelt down next to the demon. Castiel took another two steps until he was hovering there with him, curiosity and disbelief mingling in his chest and making it hard to breathe as his brother smirked down at the demon, his eyes promising the same suffering that the woman’s words did.

Balthazar leaned forward and whispered, “Why are you looking for the Winchesters?”

Castiel breathed in sharply, taking a step back, but the demon did not have the same reaction. It stared up at Balthazar, breathing heavily through the bullet in its sternum, and took up the last of its energy leaning as close to Balthazar as it could before it hissed, “Fuck you.”

The woman fired, and the demon started seizing.

Balthazar stood back up, frowning, and turned back to the woman.

“This is a waste of time,” Balthazar told her, scowling. “None of them have been willing to talk. The Winchesters can handle this for themselves.”

“And your brother?” the woman challenged, turning away from the demon to lift an eyebrow at him. “Are you willing to let him get in the middle of this?”

“Jo,” Balth said, his tone a warning. The woman, Jo, just sighed and shook her head, looking back at the demon.

“Alright, alright, I’ll stay out of it,” Jo replied, not looking away from the demons. She nodded to the remaining one with her chin. “We better muzzle that one before the cops show.”

A chirping noise erupted from Tessa’s watch. Tessa turned to look at Castiel, her eyes hard.

“Well, would you look at that, blue eyes?” she asked. “Your twenty-four hours are up.”

And before Castiel could open his mouth, before he could even beg her to wait, his eyes desperately holding onto his brother, they were teleporting away.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Landing back into a familiar space was disorienting. The moment his feet hit the musty rug that covered the floor of the Singer living room, the moment that Castiel caught sight of the Winchesters and Bobby as they waited for him to return, all of the blood rushed to his head, maybe in something like relief, because the ordeal was _over_.

Death was already looking at them, his eyebrows raised expectantly. Castiel barely wasted the time to note the Winchesters and Bobby settled around the kitchen table, not having noticed his appearance, before he shakily grated out, “You bastard.”

At the sound of his voice, the three in the kitchen rocketed to their feet, but Castiel didn’t look at them. Castiel ripped the ring off of his finger and took what felt like his first deep breath in a century, placing it down on the table with shaking hands. Castiel squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to breathe, trying to keep his head from spinning out of control.

“Why make me waste twenty-four hours on that message?” Castiel demanded, slowly opening his eyes to look at Death. His hand curled into a fist almost involuntarily as the horseman gazed at him with big brown eyes, not pretending to be innocent and not pretending like he’s going to apologize. “I get it—it’s easy to die. What else do you want from me?”

“Then maybe you didn’t get the full point after all, Castiel Novak,” Death said, his words cold and cutting. He reached over and took hold of his ring, slipping it onto his finger. As he did, the manacles that held him shattered like chiseled ice, disappearing into nothingness, and Death rose, rolling his shoulders.

Castiel glanced over and saw Dean, Sam, and Bobby hesitating at the edge of the ring of chairs, where Death and Tessa now stood with Castiel, wondering if they should pass. Castiel looked away before he would have to meet any one of their eyes, before he would have to begin explaining to them the hell he had just been through.

“And what is the full point, then, if I didn’t get it?” Castiel demanded when Death didn’t continue. Death took a moment to pick up his cane before responding, straightening up to turn his gaze on Castiel, who found that he was no longer all that afraid of the force of nature as he had been before.

“The point,” Death began, eyes on fire, “ _did_ lie in how it’s easy to die. But the part that you missed is in how easy it is to kill.”

“You wanted me to take that ring,” Castiel argued, temper spiking just too much, his own human tiredness rushing back to him. “This was _my_ quest. I get the dying thing, because people die, and it’s unavoidable. _Hunters_ die. You can’t save everyone, and you shouldn’t break the laws of nature to save people, even if you care about them. _Whatever_. But what does killing have anything to do with what you want to teach me?”

Death looked at Castiel for a long moment that dragged out in the tense silence. And then, he smiled, and it was so sinister that a chill rolled up Castiel’s spine.

“Oh, Castiel,” Death began like they were old friends. “You don’t remember this—in fact, none of you do, and neither should you. This is very sensitive information. But I trust, Castiel, you have gathered that this has all been apart of a bigger picture.”

Castiel didn’t have to think hard to remember Tessa’s vague statements, or the way her eyes sometimes flashed with hatred for him that he didn’t understand.

Death looked at the others, waiting at the edge of the ring, and continued to smile with just a little bit of a threat. “This is not the first time we’ve met, all of us. It’s all very difficult, and frankly a little boring, Castiel, but there are _dimensions_ , you see, some of them close to the true reality and some of them distant. This is one of the ones that are close, and let’s say that there are some things you owe me from the other timeline that I have come to collect here.”

Castiel blinked, and finally looked over at the Winchesters. They looked back at him with similar expressions, so it was nice to see that he wasn’t the only one completely lost.

“Timelines?” Castiel demanded, shaking his head. “So, what, there’s more of our stories out there? We aren’t even the real one?”

“What is realness, after all?” Death asked philosophically, and then laughed when Castiel gave him a black stare. “Oh, Castiel, you have always been one that evaded me. That other piece of you—you’ve done terrible things. I wanted repayment for it, but it would not fit in that world like it does here.”

“Terrible things?” Castiel echoed Death again, feeling a little numb at the thought of multiple worlds, of different realities. He looked to the Winchesters and then away, back to Death. “What kind of terrible things?”

Death smiled and, when he did, he was almost a little sad.

And then it was like before, where they were there but they weren’t, the world around them transformed. But it wasn’t memories like they were before, not the memories of those standing in the room at least, and not ones that read like a scene. These started out as flashes, sudden and awful, and suddenly the whole room was filled with screaming.

Sam screaming Dean’s name as he bled out on the floor, chest shredded from hellhounds that howled their victory.

Dean screaming in hell, just flashes of red and black and blades and pain and awful awful no no _no_ —

Dean gasping for air, buried alive.

Dean standing in a barn with Bobby, watching with wide eyes as Castiel threw open the doors, sparks raining down from above. Dean firing, and the shots not affecting Castiel, barely even causing him to blink. Dean asking, _who are you_ , and Castiel-but-not replying, _I’m an angel of the Lord_ , and the shadows of wings sprouted from his shoulders.

Flashes faster and faster of Sam’s darkness, of Ruby’s tricks, of angels wearing faces Castiel knew too well, of letting Lucifer get free, of Castiel killing an angel with the name and face of one of his sisters, of the apocalypse getting diverted.

And then of an angelic civil war, and a Sam without a soul, and Castiel’s lies, and killing an angel wearing Balthazar’s face because he wanted to stop him from being the worst person he could be, and opening Purgatory with the help of a demon and an archangel—

And then he thought he was a god, and the murder was brutal.

Castiel watched as an angelic version of him from some other timeline killed people he thought were hypocrites and sinners in the name of his own twisted religion, driven insane and taken over by all of the souls he tried to swallow in order to win a war.

And then the flashes suddenly stopped, finally finding a moment to place them in, and it was more awful than the last.

Bodies and the imprints of wings dominated the huge expanse of a heaven, dead angels as far as the eye could see. And Castiel was the only one standing in the center of it all, covered in blood and holding the same strange blade that Balthazar had had in St, Louis, his eyes cold and lifeless as he looked around at the heavenly host he had decimated.

And then it was all over, and it was all so much worse than Castiel thought it would be.

He reeled from it all, stumbling back a step and catching himself on the back of a chair. Death continued to watch him carefully as he did, standing very casually, his smile gone. Tessa stood just behind him, her eyes staring him down so sharply that Castiel couldn’t help but to think that, somewhere down the line, that alternate version of himself must have been the death of her, too.

“I have been waiting a long time for your soul to repay the debt of Heaven,” Death informed him, still staring very carefully. “I think I finally have it. The original timeline will feel it as long as he keeps his grace—and I will know it happened, because the guilt had to be given to someone.”

“That was me?” Castiel demanded, horrified. “ _Another_ me?”

“Yes,” Death replied simply. “That was other versions of all of you. The original ones. The rest of the story, I will not tell you. Some things like that need not be told.”

“But that did?” Castiel replied, forcing himself to take a deep breath and recompose himself. Death smiled.

“Yes,” Death said. “That did.”

Finally, finally, Death turned away from Castiel and looked to Dean, who looked just as shocked as Castiel felt, but his eyes snapped to meet Death’s, alert, when the attention was on him.

“Dean Winchester,” Death said. “You are free from your contract. However, let that timeline be a lesson to you—the cage doors exist everywhere, and this Lilith is just as lethal. You know what will happen. So stop it.”

Dean nodded numbly. Death looked around at all of them, making sure they all were letting ever piece of that situation sink in, before he finally nodded to himself, content with the work that had been done.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you,” Death told them, and then he and Tessa were gone, and all they left behind was an awful silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I totally promised this yesterday, but needless to say a script I pitched got picked for production for my student organization and I kind of hadn't finished writing it yet, so I had to drop everything to finish it. So the last few already-busy days have been like a rollercoaster haha
> 
> Thank you all so much for the well-wishes on the last chapter, it means so much to me <3 You guys are the sweetest.
> 
> Thanks for your constant, continued support through my long absences.
> 
> xo Kay
> 
> My Tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com


	21. Back to Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell has it been a long time!
> 
> The last year and a half or so has been a wild ride for me! I lived and studied literature in London, I graduated college, and now I'm newly moved to LA for graduate school. So, time flies when you're having fun, I suppose.
> 
> I worked tirelessly over the last couple of days to write this monster (5k words!) of a chapter, so I hope you all like it! I'm working on a plan for the remaining chapters, and I'm aiming for it to be about 5-7 more before the end of the story, which is really exciting! 
> 
> I want to thank all of you that have returned and/or stuck with me all of this time despite my inactivity. I hope to remedy that despite my coursework and working about 30 hours a week, since I apparently love to spread myself thin. 
> 
> Again, thank you all, and I hope you enjoy!!
> 
> Also, fair warning: Unedited. As soon as I finished it, I literally copied and pasted it into the box here. Good luck!
> 
> x Kay

Castiel had learned early into tagging along with the Winchesters that feelings aren’t really something they delve into often, if at all, and all things are placed on the emotional backburner for a later date. That’s exactly what ended up happening for the events of the day Death came, because it had been nearly a week now, and none of them had spoken a word about the last thing they saw, or what Castiel might have lived. Castiel, having come from a family where his father was a psychiatrist and therefore loved to get to the deeper meaning of things, couldn’t help but to admit that this denial thing wasn’t all too bad of a temporary fix.

Dean might have been freed from his contract, but that didn’t change the fact that now they knew what would happen if they didn’t stop the demon who had held it. The problem was, Lilith didn’t like to stay in one place for too long, or leave all that many survivors when she popped in to say hello.

“Well, she looks like she’s rainbows and puppies,” Dean remarked sarcastically as he dug up another article from the internet following her patterned behavior that Castiel had projected to her. He pointed at the screen even though Castiel couldn’t see it from where he was sitting. “Church massacre in a small town. Awesome. I can’t believe we didn’t catch wind of it before.”

“You’re not expected to solve them all, Dean,” Castiel reminded him, not even looking up from his own document. Sam didn’t even pay them any mind, his head ducked over a book and his lips moving as he read, his brow furrowed like whatever he was reading confused him. Dean made a noise like he didn’t agree but didn’t elaborate, simply just changing the channel to another news station to hear news of a perfectly human tragedy.

If Castiel was ever going to admit it, things had been tense since Death’s little test, or revenge or whatever it was that he was willing to call it. Dean hadn’t been able to look him in the eye, let alone come close enough to be intimate, and every time Castiel was standing and doing something menial he would feel Sam’s eyes on him, like he was waiting for him to explode. Like he was waiting for Castiel to finally reach the end of his rope, and hang himself with it.

Castiel had nearly died – well, _had_ died – because of them. Eventually, they would speak of it. Eventually, someone would break or tempers would fly, but not today, not when it was Castiel’s brother’s birthday and he couldn’t think of anything else but the way Balthazar had looked at the blonde girl, a bloodied blade in his hand.

He should have known. If Castiel was half the brother he should have been, he would have known.

Of all of the things he had done in the name of a debt, a challenge, a masquerade, the thing that haunted Castiel the most of all of it was knowing how badly he had let down his brother.

His last call to Balthazar had meant to bring all of them as much closure as he could have allowed without giving too much away, but it had managed to do the opposite. Balthazar had taken that information and ran with it, using the hunting circuit instead where reality had failed. His brother and that girl – Jo – they had been intercepting demons on his and the Winchesters’ behalf. He couldn’t help but to wonder why there were enough looking for them in the first place to warrant droves scanning cities.

Lilith must have noticed the minute Death severed Dean’s contract, taking advantage of that naughty loophole. She had to have known that she would need to find them before they found her – but that was before the deal had been done. Castiel hadn’t passed the test yet, and Balthazar had spoken like they were not the first of the demons they had spoken to about this.

Lilith, or another demon, didn’t know where they were, and they wanted to. And, like a dog with a bone, Balthazar hadn’t been far behind.

Castiel might have only been a part of this game for a handful of weeks, but he knew enough to know how high the stakes were, and the thought of his brother diving into suicidal actions to understand his choices was enough to make his skin feel itchy. Castiel had meant for his final call to have sounded guilty enough to be a goodbye forever, but Balthazar had always known him too well. He had seen his obsession firsthand and would not have been fooled with Michael’s easy insinuations; he would never believe that Castiel would simply risk everything he had worked so hard for.

So Balthazar was looking for him, and protecting him. And Castiel had a name.

Names didn’t mean much, not in a day and age where Google was the average person’s most reliable best friend. The world had enough of a mysterious underbelly that the nationwide network with the FBI had been the best way to find people, scouring sources through multiple states for any sign or licenses or birth records. There were only so many things Jo could be a nickname for – Joan, Joanne, Joanna – and it wouldn’t take more than that to have found her with his old resources.

But those were gone like ashes in the wind. Castiel didn’t have much opportunity to search for people like that, but he did have the best sources of identification for miles around.

Sometimes, it was just that easy.

Castiel feigned a groan and stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders. The Winchesters barely seemed to notice, but Dean’s flash of a gaze was enough to tell him that his – best friend, boyfriend, partner in paranormal crime solving? – had been quietly keeping track of his movements like a background habit. In the same way Dean’s hand would reach for him like instinct if Castiel ever moved too far away in the bed, the same way Dean’s head would pop into a room mornings he woke up alone as if to make sure Castiel hadn’t took off running from here yet, Dean was making sure he wasn’t ready to give up on him. It reminded Castiel too much of the times Dean’s smile would fade just a little when he looked back at Castiel following him on a stupid adventure in their youth, waiting for him to turn away, waiting for him to give up on Dean’s crazy ideas, to make it seem possessive or stifling.

But for this, Dean couldn’t help him. In fact, Dean was more likely to hold him back from what he wanted to do. So, he had only one choice left.

After making his excuses, he wandered out to the lot of unused, broken cars where he knew Bobby would be working. The moment Castiel stepped into the damp early afternoon air, the smell of rain still lingering in the lazy wind, he heard Bobby tinkering with something mechanical, the crash of tools drawing him toward Bobby’s barn, where he found the man hunched over a worktable, his shoulders hunched and his mouth pulled down into a stern frown as he concentrated.

“Hello, Bobby,” Castiel greeted, hoping the older man didn’t notice the anxiety in his voice. Bobby looked up from his work, pulling his hat up before wiping at his sweaty forehead. He raised his eyebrows expectantly at Castiel, and the caution in his eyes was enough to show Castiel that his attempt to hide his tumultuous emotional state was not as well done as he hoped.

“What’s gotten under your skin?” Bobby demanded. “You look like you’re gonna be sick.”

“I feel like it, too,” Castiel replied with a wry smile that fell within moments. “I need to ask you something that is going to sound strange, but it’s something I heard on that mission from Death.”

“Alright. Shoot.”

Castiel hesitated for only a moment before asking, “Do you know of a hunter named Jo?”

Like a door slamming shut, the openness in Bobby’s eyes disappeared. His mouth thinned and there was no sign of his same helpfulness whenever Castiel has ever approached him with a question. It was as much an answer as any, but still Bobby bought himself some time to craft a potential lie.

“J-O-E?” Bobby spelled, his tone far-off, feigning thoughtful. “That’s a pretty common name, I’d have to take a look at my records.”

“You do remember I have experience reading micro-expressions, right?”

Bobby’s frown did not move a hair.

Castiel sighed. “It’s nothing malicious, Bobby. She’s not injured or anything. I just need a way to get in contact with her.”

“Why?” Bobby demanded flatly, his eyes flashing. “What were you doing anywhere near her when you were with that reaper?”

“Death wanted to show me something that he knew would bother me, something he knew I didn’t want to see,” Castiel said and, upon the fiery look of impatience in Bobby’s eyes, he chose brevity instead: “She’s with my brother.”

Bobby’s eyebrows shot up again, some of his anger dissipating as he understood more of the context, knowing that Castiel wasn’t asking after her out of spite. He still didn’t look convinced, but Castiel hadn’t expected this to be easy.

“Your brother?”

“My older brother,” he explained further. “He was in the bank with Dean and Sam the first time I encountered them directly. In Milwaukee.”

“V-neck?” Bobby asked.

Castiel nodded, wondering how his brother would react to knowing the majority of his legacy among people he had yet to meet was his deep-cut shirts.

“Death wanted me to see that my brother had turned to hunting because he knew I wouldn’t have wanted him to,” Castiel told him, reaching up and rubbing his face. “I just want to speak to him. What Death and Tessa showed me – he’s hunting demons that are looking for us. I want to know if he’s found anything, and to talk him out of what he’s doing.”

“I figure he can make his own decisions,” Bobby replied hesitantly, watching Castiel’s reaction. “And if he’s with Jo, then he’s in good hands. But I’ll look for them. Jo’s the daughter of a good friend of mine.”

“Thank you, Bobby,” Castiel told him, letting out a long breath. “Don’t mention this to Sam and Dean, please. Dean would just try to talk me out of it, and I – I need to speak to my brother.”

Bobby looked like he wanted to chew him out, to emphasize how foolish it would be for him to start keeping secrets, but he knew it was no use. Castiel didn’t wait another moment before turning and making his way back to the house, his hand absently rubbing the spot on his finger Death’s ring had once sat.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Castiel had been expecting Bobby would give him a phone number, albeit reluctantly, but he ended up surprising him. It wasn’t even four hours later that Bobby cornered Castiel on his way to take a shower, wordlessly handing him a folded piece of paper. Castiel grabbed it eagerly, looking at the address scrawled in Bobby’s blocky handwriting.

“You’re in luck,” Bobby told him, crossing his arms over his chest. “They’re holed up on the north side of Omaha on a ghost hunt. Ellen says they just got there yesterday.”

“I really appreciate this,” he told him sincerely, but Bobby just sighed heavily.

“You’re going to worry him sick, doing stunts like this,” Bobby informed him as if he didn’t already know but didn’t otherwise attempt to talk him out of it. “Either way, the two of them have a newfound plan of attempting to find Lilith, so they’ll be busy enough they won’t notice for a while.”

“Okay.”

Bobby reached into his pocket and handed him a set of car keys, and Castiel took them after a moment of surprised hesitation.

“It’s for the Honda just outside of the gate,” he let him know gruffly. “It doesn’t have a lot of gas but the least you can do is fill it up for me.”

“Sometimes, I don’t understand why you’re so kind to me,” Castiel couldn’t help but to admit, looking up at the man with a small frown. “I appreciate it, but you’re under no obligation to be welcoming to me. So why?”

Bobby eyed him for a moment like he was considering not answering. Then he sighed heavily and shook his head, twice.

“Other than the fact that I’m really not a miserable old coot,” Bobby replied, “Dean is like a son to me. Anyone he’s willing to vouch for is good people.”

Castiel nodded slowly.

“Glad we cleared that up,” Bobby said, pausing only to roll his eyes before he slumped off, leaving Castiel in the hallway clutching a towel, spare pants, keys, and an address for one of the things he was dreading the most, remembering the way his brother’s voice had wobbled with fear after he had told him that he would never be able to go home again.

Castiel didn’t want to go. But he knew he would never be able to live with himself if he didn’t.

He shoved the address and keys into his spare jeans’ pocket and turned back for the bathroom, trying not to think about it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It took about three hours to get there once Castiel had, in a move so similar to when he was a teenager that he felt like an idiot, snuck out of the Singer house and had eased the car from the driveway, waiting until he was to the corner of the street before switching on the headlights and pressing hard on the gas of the squeaky engine, gripping the steering wheel so hard his fingers started aching after only a handful of minutes, before he even managed to get out of the city.

Castiel, for all of his life since the night he watched the Winchester house burn, had been a methodical planner. Anything spontaneous, any last minute decisions, always made him hesitate. He liked order and sense and logic. When he went places he checked twice to make sure he locked his door behind him and he knew exactly how long it would take for him to get to his destination. It was one of the few ways he and his sister Anna had had anything in common – they made sure to know everything about everything.

Ever since joining this world, that was not the way Castiel had been able to live. He was clueless to the world of the supernatural, and it was impossible to properly plan a hunt with all of the impossible factors. It wasn’t a report on his desk or a killer with all of his tells on his display like a peacock, it was an unpredictable and dangerous lifestyle.

Castiel knew exactly what roads to take to get to his brother, but he had no idea what his reception was going to be once he got there.

He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about his brother and the blonde hunter since Death’s test, despite all of the terrible things he had seen and all of the lessons he had learned about alternate timelines and himself with angel wings playing god and all of the horrific things he did in the name of righteousness, even if it wasn’t actually him. All he kept thinking of was how he had left with the Winchesters in part to protect his family from what he didn’t understand, to keep them safe from a world of demons and bad fates and a grisly end. He had seen what happened to Mary Winchester, and he hadn’t wanted it to happen to them, so he had broken their hearts and his own and left them behind for their own sakes.

He should have known his eldest brother hadn’t let what he saw in that bank lie. He should have known that Balthazar would seek the truth and he would have been unshakable from doing what he thought was right.

He had to get his brother to stop. If he could do anything, he had to ask Balthazar to be safe.

The address took him to a small motel off of a main road, the roof a little decrepit but it didn’t look any worse than all of the ones he and the Winchesters had stayed in. It only took a flash of his badge before the gaunt twenty-something at the desk pointed him in the direction of Balthazar and Jo’s room, letting him in with the extra key. Castiel thanked him before wandering into the room, closing the door and locking it behind him. He peered to the window, watching the receptionist wander back to the office before drawing the curtains, ignoring that his hands were shaking.

It was late, but Castiel had known they wouldn’t be here by the lack of a car in the parking lot outside. Their bags were thrown on the chairs accompanying a small table by the window, and Castiel recognized Balthazar’s from all their family trips. Castiel sunk down on the foot of the furthest bed from the door, reaching up and rubbing his face.

A ghost hunt could mean that they wouldn’t return until daybreak, or even later. Castiel was willing to wait, but he knew the longer that passed the later he would return to Bobby’s home and the sooner the Winchesters would notice he was missing if Dean didn’t wander into his room in the middle of the night, as had become habit. Castiel reached behind him nervously, checking for the feel of the cold metal gun holstered at his back like a nervous tick.

Castiel got lucky again. It wasn’t more than twenty minutes that he sat in an uncertain silence, his knee bouncing anxiously, that headlights turned into the parking spot outside of the room. Castiel pushed himself up from the bed and rubbed his sweaty palms on his thighs, taking a deep breath as one car door slammed, and then two.

A key jiggled in the lock. Castiel didn’t consider the repercussions of breaking into a hunter’s motel room until the door was already swinging open, his brother rolling his shoulders as he moved to let Jo in first.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he must have seen Castiel, a person-shaped figure in a room that should have been empty, and Balthazar surprised Castiel with how quickly he grabbed his gun and pointed it to his chest, ready to fire, his face nearly impossible to see in the shadows but Castiel could see the way his jaw was clenched.

“Don’t,” Castiel blurted out, raising his hands in surrender even though neither hunter could see him. And, dumber still, the next words out of his mouth were a rushed, “It’s me.”

Balthazar hesitated for a moment. And then the light overhead light suddenly turned on, causing Castiel to blink against the sudden glare of light, and his older brother was staring at him dumbly from the doorway, a gun in his hand and his mouth opened comically in surprise. From behind him, lowering the knife in her hand, was the lithe blonde girl from the streets of the city, her eyes deep brown and wide as they fell on Castiel.

Balthazar let out a noise like he was suffocating and barely managed to choke out, “Cassie”, before he was rushing toward him, tossing his gun to the side and throwing his arms around Castiel in a bone-shattering hug.

Castiel squeezed his brother back, unable to help it – the second he had seen Balthazar’s face, for just a flash, he remembered the vision Death had showed him of Castiel shoving a blade into his heart.

Balthazar pushed him away so he could look him in the eye with a big, bright grin, holding onto his shoulders as he appraised him like he was half expecting to have found Castiel in pieces. He looked tired, and a bruise that looked like two fingers forming on his throat as if a hand had grabbed it with great force. He hadn’t shaved for over a day and his shirt was covered in dirt, making it look like he had been thrown to the ground as well. Jo, still standing a handful of feet away and watching them cautiously, like she was expecting an explosion, had a red mark on her cheek and dirt on her clothes as well. Castiel wondered if they’d been digging into graves.

“Cassie,” Balthazar breathed, letting out a long breath like he had been holding it since the minute Castiel had called him to say goodbye. Balthazar squeezed his shoulders hard like he was thinking the same thing, but his smile didn’t fade. “It’s so damn good to see you. I was worried sick, and it’s been killing me that the rest of the family has to think you’re some crazy psychopathic murderer – not that they do, they think it’s shifty as all hell, what Michael’s accused you of – but still, I was convinced you and the Winchesters would bite off more than you could chew.”

Castiel didn’t dare mention the fact that only a week ago he was literally Death, so he just forced his face into a smile.

“I’m fine,” Castiel told him slowly, “but we need to talk.”

“Sounds ominous,” Balthazar teased, but his eyes tightened. He looked behind him to Jo, who was still hovering by the door, and he grinned and gestured toward her. “Cassie, this is Jo Harvelle. She’s the one that’s been keeping me alive.”

“I only keep him around so he can drive when I’m sleeping,” she joked, her smile carving small dimples into her cheeks. She was the wordless kind of beautiful, the easy kind of charming and pretty. She was covered in the scars of a hunter, the ones so much like the ones decorating Dean’s arms and torso that Castiel couldn’t help but to think of him, but he pushed it away, not letting himself feel guilty over the silenced phone sitting in his glove compartment.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Castiel greeted her, because even though he felt like he was going to be sick for what was sure to happen next, he was still polite. “Bobby Singer says you’re a good friend.”

Jo rolled her eyes, and then said, “I figured Sam and Dean would take you to Bobby’s. Hope the old guy hasn’t driven you up a wall yet.”

“The insanity-driving has, if anything, been mutual,” he told her, and she laughed, her bright smile lighting her whole face up again, and Castiel glanced at his brother when she did, at the small smile on his face as he watched her, and he knew his older brother loved her.

Balthazar looked back toward him and seemed to notice the realization on Castiel’s face, because suddenly the little smile dropped and color rose in his cheeks, but Balth didn’t mention it any further than that, raising his eyebrows instead in challenge. Castiel shook his head minutely, just enough to tell him he would let it lie, and Balthazar didn’t bother to give the topic anymore acknowledgement than that.

“So, I’m sure this isn’t purely a social call,” Balth began, a hint of ice in his voice, and Castiel knew he should feel bad for not having called him all of these weeks but he didn’t reply to it. Castiel sighed and nodded, taking half a step back from his brother as he did, like he was putting more space between him and one of his potentially flying fists.

“It’s not,” Castiel said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I had to find out from a third party that my brother has been hunting for months, nearly a year, without bothering to tell me. And then I got to find out that you were intercepting demons hunting down me and the Winchesters.”

Balthazar looked at him calmly for a long moment before blowing out a long breath. “Okay, sure, I get that you’re irritated. But I’m not going to apologize. You left our whole family for this life.”

“It wasn’t all my choice,” Castiel ground out through his teeth, yanking his hands out of his pockets so he could curl them into fists. “I was only going to leave my job until that building exploded and Naomi wasn’t inside of it. I wouldn’t have had to say goodbye and make myself into a serial killer. I didn’t want this to happen, I didn’t want you out here risking your life –”

“Oh, here we go,” Balthazar muttered sourly, scowling at Castiel. “Don’t start with that bullshit right now. You’re here, too. You can put your life on the line and go hunting with the brothers Hell is gunning for personally, but if I want to ride shotgun with Jo and rid the world of some terrible things then I’m the one who’s gone too far? Your Ivy League is showing, Cassie.”

Castiel hated when he brought up the Ivy League thing, because he had spent his years at that school trying not to become that person. But he wasn’t going to let Balthazar derail him when he had come all the way here, sneaking out in the middle of the night like a kid, making him worry sick because he had watched his brother play bait to a demon trap –

Jo cleared her throat pointedly and the two brothers snapped their heads around to look at her, only to find her awkwardly standing near the table with their bags on it. In her hand already was a set of car keys, and she didn’t even bother to give a clumsy excuse before asking, “Anyone want anything?”

Castiel shook his head and Balthazar grunted out a no. She nodded once in reply before taking her leave, fleeing the room and leaving them to their argument. They waited until the headlights showed Jo had gone, and they finally turned to look back at each other, anger churning in Castiel’s stomach.

“You need to trust me on this,” Castiel told him slowly. “I’ve seen and heard enough about this life to know there’s no getting out of it except in a body bag, not when it’s too late. It’s not too late for you, for either of you. I can’t go back, but you can.”

“Why did you let them hunt for you like that?” Balthazar demanded, his voice raised like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud but it had exploded from him anyway. “Wasn’t there another way you could have left without letting everyone believe you are a psychopath?”

“There wasn’t,” Castiel admitted, but there probably had been, it had just been the easiest way to put the problem to rest, the only way it felt possible that he could go on the run with the Winchester brothers without his family getting suspicious. “There was a demon attack in Monument, ones that were out for the Winchesters. They surrounded us and we killed them, all of them – but one. One that had possessed Naomi. Once she was found, it was the beginning of the end, and there were only a couple of ways we could go about things, and Naomi wanted to tell Michael that the Winchesters had gotten away, but that would have meant saying I had let them go. So, I chose another option. It was the easiest way for a clean break.”

“You broke our mother’s heart,” Balthazar murmured, reaching up and rubbing his face. “When Michael showed up with a battalion of Feds looking for you, wanting to search any possessions you might have left in the house, it destroyed her. We had been so hopeful that that event would have been what got you to leave your dangerous job so we didn’t have to wonder if that was the day you’d get killed in action chasing a crazy murderer. Our father didn’t speak for days. Samandriel doesn’t even want to come home for the holidays anymore. And it’s all because of you.”

Balthazar surged forward a step. Castiel mirrored it backward.

“Rachel didn’t understand what was happening, when all of those people were turning the house apart and calling you a traitor, a murderer. She cried for you every night for weeks, nearly months. Anna can’t walk past pictures of you without bursting into tears, and Charlie is drowning herself in work. She’s convinced that if she practices enough at hacking that she’ll be able to make it into a business with the resources to find you and bring you home.”

Castiel knew Balthazar would dig the knife in and twist it, knew he would bring up their family in an attempt to hurt him. Castiel tried not to let it show how much the information hurt him, but he could feel the tears building as he swallowed hard, as he blinked a little extra.

“I know I’ve made mistakes and done horrible things as a means to an end,” Castiel informed his brother slowly, softly. “I know everything that I’ve done, and it kills me. I think about all of you every single day, so don’t pretend like I don’t care, or I’ve never cared.”

“You haven’t,” Balthazar snapped. “Not for a long time. Not nearly as much as you cared about finding Dean Winchester.”

“You say that like you haven’t given up your safety to follow Jo to the ends of the earth.”

“Don’t bring Jo into this,” Balthazar growled, his eyes flashing. “What I feel for her has never been an obsession like yours has been, so I don’t want to hear it, I really fucking don’t.”

“You need to leave this life,” Castiel tried to plead his case again, but Balth silenced him with a sour, humorless laugh.

“Save your breath,” he told him. “I’m not going anywhere. Everything makes sense like it never did when I was working in corporations, or traveling to expensive places and drinking fancy wine and schmoozing with every CEO that came in my path. This is natural to me. Like I’ve been supposed to do this all along.”

“Then at least stay out of the business of the demons hunting Sam and Dean,” Castiel said. “We don’t need the help, and I don’t think you realize how quickly those demons would become murderous if you got in their way. Me, Sam, Dean, and Bobby can handle what we’re dealing with. So just, please, for the love of God, just do what I’m asking just this once.”

Balthazar stared at him for a long, long time. And then he whispered, brokenly, “Please go see Mom and Dad.”

“You know I can’t,” Castiel whispered back, hating that his voice broke, hating the way Balthazar flinched when it did. “I want to, Balth. I never wanted to do that to all of you. But I can’t go home and pretend like nothing’s happening, not after what happened with Mary Winchester.”

Balthazar didn’t say anything.

“I hope I can go home someday. God, do I hope. But I don’t know if I’ll live long enough. I don’t know how long it’ll take before I’m sure demons aren’t going to be following me.”

“How does Dean live with knowing he’s tearing your whole world apart?” Balthazar murmured, and Castiel couldn’t tell if the hurt and sadness in his eyes was meant to hurt Castiel more, or if he genuinely didn’t understand how someone could do that to someone they loved so much.

Castiel looked his brother in the eye and murmured, “He hates himself for every minute of it. But I’ve made my choices.”

“Yeah,” Balthazar mulled, swallowing hard as he looked at Castiel like it was the last time he was ever going to see him. “You have. And so have I.”

Castiel nodded slowly, feeling a knot in his chest because he knew he would never be able to convince his brother to be anything other than he wanted to be, and if it was a hero Balthazar believed he could be, then a hero he would become. Castiel walked toward the door, walking wide around Balthazar as he went, and his brother turned to watch him. Castiel hesitated at the door, swallowing back the hysteria and devastation bubbling up his throat. He turned back to his brother and found Balthazar watching him with an unfathomable expression, and Castiel was certain he was just as close to losing it as he was.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel told his brother hoarsely. Balthazar kept staring at him and slowly nodded, seeing something on Castiel’s face that might have looked like he understood.

“Yeah,” he murmured softly, looking so, so tired. “I am, too.”

Castiel didn’t – couldn’t – say anything more before he turned and forced himself out the door and toward his borrowed car, and he waited until he was beyond city limits before he pulled the car off the highway, leaned his head back, and let himself fall apart.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Castiel walked into the Singer house in the early hours of a new morning and found the residents huddled around the kitchen table, speaking in low voices. The conversation suddenly silenced when he walked in, setting the car keys down onto the counter and nodding his thanks to Bobby. Sam nodded in hello, not pausing from sipping at his coffee, but Dean’s eyes were intensely curious, fixed on him like a beacon.

“Where,” Dean started to ask, like he couldn’t help it, and then shook his head. “Never mind, it’s not important. What is important is that Sam and I managed to summon an old demon friend of ours. If being friends means attempting to kill us and our father on numerous different occasions and being a spawn of the demon who killed our mother.”

“Sorry I missed it,” Castiel said, and offered nothing more. “Have you managed to get anything out of her?”

“See, that’s the fun part,” Dean alluded hesitantly, glancing toward Sam, who picked up the baton and set his coffee cup back onto the table.

“She’s been asking to speak with you, specifically,” Sam informed him, raising his eyebrows. “Though we have no idea how the hell she could know you, or care enough to be stubborn.”

“I’m still pretty sure she’s just being a bitch because she can,” Dean enlightened Castiel. Sam just ignored his brother’s comment completely, but Bobby made a grunt of agreement.

“Even if that’s the case,” Bobby said, “we’re burnin’ daylight just sittin’ around. We might as well figure out what her fuss is all about.”

Dean nodded in agreement and pushed himself to his feet with Bobby, Sam finishing a long sip to finish off his coffee before rising with them. Dean led the way down the stairs with Castiel following close behind, ducking his head to avoid a beam at the same moment Dean bellowed into the basement, his voice falsely cheerful, “Rise and shine, bitch. We brought you a present.”

Castiel hit the bottom of the stairs and looked toward the demon trapped in the middle of the space, stopping in his tracks. She had dark hair and dark brown eyes, and her lips were painted cherry red where they pulled up into a smirk as she saw Castiel see her. He was sure his mouth hadn’t dropped open like a cartoon but he was pretty sure the Winchesters couldn’t miss the way his shoulders tensed, his hands useless at his sides, the way his weight shifted away from her as if in an impulse to run. But, even if they did, none of his friends had the chance to ask before the woman drawled out a lazy, amused, “Hello, Clarence.”

Castiel stared at her blankly for a second before he said, “Oh, you’ve _got_ to be kidding me.”


	22. Heaven in Hiding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Boy has it been a while. If you guys recall, I moved across the country to LA for grad school in July, and it's been a doozy. Hollywood is as terrifying as it is lovely and cruel.
> 
> This one is a little on the shorter side in comparison to the other recent chapters, but I figured y'all wouldn't mind!
> 
> One of my 2018 resolutions is to finish this story. It's always on the back of my mind, and I think I need the closure even more than you guys do. Thank you all for sticking with me through the radio silence.
> 
> x Kay
> 
> Notice: Currently unedited!

Castiel had not had the best dealings with fate, so realistically he shouldn’t have expected anything but what was standing before him. He knew from his handful of literal deaths that some kind of godlike entity must have it out for him, but it wasn’t until he met the eyes of Meg Masters across the lines of a Devil’s Trap that he was certain he must also be said god’s personal cosmic joke.

Meg seemed to find it as funny. Her red-painted lips tipped up into a smug smirk, as if his presence was an entertaining punch line.

Castiel’s eye honest-to-god twitched.

“I’ve had a very long day,” Castiel told her flatly, “so if you’re here to tell me more non-coincidental behavior and rhetoric about alternate timelines, I’m going to lose whatever is left of my sanity.”

Meg considered lying to him for a moment, and then grinned. “None such luck, handsome.”

Castiel was grateful for the random junk Bobby had piled around his basement space, because it was more than easy to find a sturdy stack of boxes to throw himself down onto, reaching up to rub his face. Meg watched him from the other side of the symbols, her dark eyes reading more about him than he would ever want them to. But of all of their rocky and nebulous past, of all of the people Castiel had trusted in the world in the early years of his adult life, he couldn’t bring himself to be surprised that it was Meg Masters that made him feel so vulnerable and undone.

She had once known him so well. The most of all people.

And because Dean was the only ever other person to know Castiel better than he knew himself, it only took him another ten seconds before his eyes widened and he gestured helplessly between the two of them before managing, “Wait a second – don’t tell me – your bat-shit ex?”

“You told him I’m bat-shit crazy?” Meg demanded to Castiel, and then let out a loud laugh. “Oh have I missed you, Clarence. How in the world have I survived without that petty bitchiness I love so much?”

And Castiel, because it really had been a long day and he just really wanted a warm shower, simply replied by sighing.

Sam shook his head. “I really need to start asking you guys more questions, getting blindsided like this is getting old fast.”

“No kiddin’,” Bobby grunted, but the older man clearly didn’t give a hoot about the relationship drama in the room despite the most obvious, which he voiced: “How’d you know to look for Cas before you even met Sam and Dean?”

Meg looked pleased someone had asked her, and she made sure that Castiel was still listening before preening, smiling charmingly toward Bobby. “Oh, that’s easy. Destiny and all that shit played into that one. I knew what I was looking for, and I knew Azazel was trying to hunt him down for it. This world was – is, I guess – his second try. He knew Castiel stood between his cronies and his end goal, so he tried to hunt him down. That’s where I came in.”

“What,” Dean demanded, eyes narrowed, “you were his spy?”

Meg looked at him, and then snorted loudly.

“Wow,” she mused, “Death clearly didn’t show you everything, huh?”

Without even meaning for it come out, Castiel said, “Don’t be difficult, Meg. We’ve heard enough cryptic bullshit to last us several lifetimes.”

“Ooh, touchy,” she commented, turning back to face him and crossing her arms over her chest. “By the way, you’re taking this revelation a little well, don’t you think? I was expecting some prima donna-style overreaction. You’ve barely even blinked at me.”

“After all of the things Death showed us, I really can’t find it in me to be surprised anymore.” Castiel rubbed his face again before pushing himself off of the boxes and back onto his feet, swaying a step and a half closer to the symbols on the floor. Dean twitched like he might try to stop his approach but made no attempt, even as Sam planted his footing as if preparing to kick off and tackle Castiel out of the way of – something. But Castiel looked only to Meg, who looked back at him with that little smirk on her lips that used to drive him up a wall, and it was only because he knew her so well that he saw the unease in her eyes, the feeble hope that he wouldn’t ask what she knew.

Meg sighed heavily. “Okay, okay, don’t look at me with that tone of puppy-dog eyes. Azazel’s my father – basically – and I did a bunch of really bad things for him in the past life. For this one, the powers that be wanted me to protect you from him, and I did a damn good job until you decided to walk out on me with little to no indication of where you had gone. I heard down the grapevine that Yellow Eyes had tried to kill you – and _just_ failed. Which is curious, since he killed a hell of a lot of people for fun, so typically the people he wanted dead had a one-way ticket on the Revenge Express. You had no idea how many protection sigils were in everything around you when I was there to keep you safe – spelled into your clothes, carved into the walls of your apartment. I might be a stain on society or whatever, but I did my damnedest to keep you alive. And, for all intents and purposes, I failed it harder than Trigonometry.”

There was no sign of a lie on her face, but Castiel figured that, as a demon, the same kind of human guilt wouldn’t allow for a tell. However, he had seen and learned so much in so little time that he didn’t even doubt it for a moment anyway.

“You didn’t fail Trigonometry,” Castiel said. “You got a C.”

Meg burst out laughing again. “Literally never a dull moment. You were only slightly more fun as an angel, Clarence. But as a human, you are simply divine. Pun intended.”

“How did Cas stay alive after Azazel tried to kill him?” Sam asked, reinserting himself into the conversation as if he literally couldn’t help himself to ask about something that confused him. Meg’s eyes flicked to him, expression disinterested, but he saw the flash of a pleased smile. “You allegedly protected him before, but what could have stopped Yellow Eyes from showing up again and killing Cas when he found out he lived? No offense, Cas.”

Castiel shook his head at Sam to bid him not to apologize. Meg looked between them, expression so pleased Castiel was half tempted to check if she was purring.

“I always liked you,” Meg commented, but the statement did not seem to be a compliment to the youngest Winchester. “Where Clarence went, they gave him an even better protection detail. Azazel didn’t dare even come into the city limits.”

Castiel looked at her curiously. “Was it an angel, then?”

Meg made a whole show of locking her lips up and throwing away the key. From behind Castiel, Dean sighed in annoyance.

“Well, this is going well,” Dean commented sarcastically, the sour edge to his voice giving way to . . . Was that jealousy? By the glee that flashed onto Meg’s face, Castiel was willing to bet his initial assumption was correct, added with emphasis by the way even Sam paused his very serious face to shoot an amused expression at his brother. Dean either ignored them or didn’t notice, but Meg certainly did, because her smirk cut to Castiel with unrestrained amusement.

Sam seemed finished with the games. “If you know everything from the other timeline, then you know how to kill Lilith.”

Meg snorted. “This again, huh? Predictable to the very end.”

“That’s how to do it, isn’t it?” Sam demanded, leaning against one of the posts supporting the rest of the house. “If Lilith’s death is the final seal, then what happens if she dies before any of the other seals?”

Meg looked at him. And grinned.

“At least you four idiots are learning from your mistakes,” she mused, crossing her arms over her chest, smile smug. “You got it in one, hot stuff. Before there can be a proper apocalypse, there must be a righteous man. And for there to be a righteous man, one of you three—” She looked pointedly between Dean, Sam, and Castiel— “need to meet a deadly fate. Thanks to Clarence, you met Death years early and used him to break the deal. Yay you. So now, you just need to make sure that the Mother of Demons doesn’t get the opportunity to bleed on her little altar and let the devil out. Any plans?”

Castiel glanced to Dean, who shot him a look that told him everything he needed to know, and that the Winchesters absolutely had zero plans. Meg didn’t need to be able to read them to know what the silence meant, though. She clicked her tongue, crossing one ankle over the other as she leaned back, surveying them across the line of the devil’s trap.

“Lilith has extensive security surrounding her at all hours because of this little fun fact,” Meg informed them. “She’s safe in hell, but she’s not going back until she gets her righteous man, so you have bought yourself some time. However, you morons have once again gotten in with her most loyal minion.”

“Ruby,” Sam groaned like he’d almost forgotten, scowling.

“Ruby,” Meg agreed cheerfully. “Her job has been to do anything to keep you all trusting her so that Lilith can set her dogs on you whenever she pleases. Ruby is the one that’s been tasked with making sure you get to the final seal, and she’s been ordered to do whatever it takes for you to believe in her enough to make that fatal mistake. I’m sure you can extrapolate from there.”

“We just have to lure her into a trap,” Castiel remarked dryly. “Either to torture her for information, manipulate her, or kill her.”

Meg purred. “I love it when you talk dirty.”

If looks could have killed, Meg would have been wiped off of the face of the earth Terminator 2-style by the way Dean was glaring at her. Of course, that only spurned Meg on to shoot Castiel a sultry wink. Castiel did his best to ignore her, but he couldn’t help the small grin that tugged onto his lips for just a moment, feeling the strangest fondness for her teasing quips, her innocent hijinks.

Dean was not feeling nearly as nostalgic as he scowled at Meg and drawled, “So we have to kill her? There’s no way to trap her?”

Meg rolled her eyes. “Jeez, tough guy, please don’t overcomplicate this. There’s a way to curse Lilith into being sucked into Lucifer’s cage when her lifeblood is sacrificed, but that has too many variables for things to go wrong, not to mention that it would involve one of you going to the hot seat downstairs. And if we can do anything to keep any kind of angelic presence out of this timeline, we should.”

Castiel thought of the dead bodies in that peaceful field of Heaven, and how a version of him with the same trench coat and Balthazar’s silvery blade stood over their bodies and the angel wings that had burned their shape into the grasses. Meg met his gaze over the space like she was thinking the same thing, though there was no way she could have really known – still, she looked a little like she had swallowed something sour, like it was taking every bone in her body not to extend a little bit of kindness toward him.

And maybe it was that, or maybe it was the constant trauma of the last couple of days – the universe taking, taking, taking – that Castiel’s tone was icy as he announced to the room, “We need to go upstairs and discuss if it’s worth believing in the word of a demon.”

He hadn’t meant it, not really. But he knew there was no way he would be able to take it back now as Meg’s eyes flashed red, and her lips pulled back over her teeth in a noiseless snarl. He knew her well enough, though, to see that flicker of humanity – of hurt – flash across her face before it was gone, and she was back to playing the part of a swaggering brat with a cheeky grin and a forked tongue.

Castiel hadn’t even had time to turn toward the stairs to escape this, even for long enough to clear the pounding rising in his head, when Meg cooed, “Aren’t you going to tell us how that little meeting with your brother went?”

Castiel froze, his shoulders locking down for impact. And while he knew that Dean and Sam had noticed his absence but pointedly hadn’t remarked on it, Dean’s head practically snapped around to look at him. Sam looked a little cautious, like he really didn’t want to know about all of the drama anymore, and Bobby just eyed Dean thoughtfully, a small frown curling onto his face.

Castiel leveled his gaze at her, and her laugh was like falling glass, the tinkle of all of the sharp pieces hitting the ground like rainfall. “Oh, the underworld has been having a lovely conversation about him these days. Angel in a past life, now a primed hunter with a specialty on intercepting demons with their eyes on a Winchester target. I hope he gave you all of the answers you were looking to find and more, Clarence.”

He saw the bait, and he did not take it. He looked away instead, toward the Winchesters and Bobby, and murmured that they should go upstairs now. Meg didn’t offer another statement as Bobby ascended, and then Sam. Dean hesitated for a moment, like he was hoping that Castiel would go ahead of him and leave him alone with Meg, but Castiel didn’t budge a step. Dean slunk up the stairs in a tense, reluctant silence, and he let the door close a little louder than usual behind him.

Meg shot him a grin over the space. “I suppose congratulations are in order. You’ve been wanting in that guy’s pants since the moment you learned about sex.”

“I’m going to pretend as though I didn’t hear that statement, as I still haven’t even decided to trust you in a friendly capacity,” Castiel told her, but he couldn’t help but to smile. She was just the same, and it was a little jarring but also a little wonderful – she was still Meg, with her pretty round face and her dark hair and eyes. She was still wearing the same necklace, and she still looked killer in a pair of leather pants. The memories of when he loved her desperately begged to drag him down and drown him in an inch of water, but he wouldn’t let them, because he hadn’t for a long, long time. She noticed him looking, sensed what his concentration would be on the same way she had always been one of the only people in the entire world who could, and she shot him another lazy smile.

“You’ve already decided, so don’t play that game,” she teased him. She tilted her head curiously. “But you do realize how in over your head you are, right?”

“With Lilith, or with Dean?”

Meg didn’t hesitate before she drawled, “Both, Clarence.”

Castiel shook his head at her. She cut him a wicked grin, and tucked her hands into her pack pockets. Wild, savage – those are all of the things he’d once thought of her. And they were still accurate; she still burned with all of it. Castiel didn’t know how he hadn’t realized it before, but he knew now why he had loved her so recklessly, and it was because she was so much like Dean Winchester.

And it was because of that he said, “I noticed.”

She raised her eyebrows in question, but he saw the delight in her eyes. Cat and mouse – their favorite game.

He grinned and looked down at the devil’s trap, at the little, tiniest imperfection. At the scuff that had been made in the design and the Winchesters hadn’t noticed, too wrapped up in their own world, too trusting of the familiar environment around them – Meg hadn’t been trapped this entire time, and Castiel had noticed it the second after the shock had worn off, the second his eyes had caught on the little details.

This time, Meg’s smile wasn’t mocking. It was real, and it shown with the same cruel joy that she wore like a badge of honor as she murmured, “Oh have I missed you, Clarence.”

“Try not to disappear the moment I turn my back,” he told her, drifting backward toward the stairs. “We could use an ally.”

Meg folded herself down onto the ground, tucking her legs up underneath of her before shooting him a feral smile. “Why in the fresh hell do you think I’m still here?”

Castiel rolled his eyes, and climbed back up the stairs, knowing that she would stay where she was because Castiel had lost the ability to believe in anything other than the people he knew the most, and she didn’t make another comment to his back as he walked away, even though he knew she was thinking the same thing he was – about the time he had walked away from her, even when he could still tell it hadn’t all been an act, and how he hadn’t looked back. Not even once. 

He didn’t look back this time, either. Somehow, he knew that she didn’t mind.

Castiel had thought that he was running out of hope. But then he saw the fire in Balthazar’s eyes as he continued to fight in his corner, and he thought of the way Jo had looked at him. He thought about how the brothers had given everything to stay alive, to keep each other alive, and how Bobby had stood at the sidelines of it all, giving everything in his power to fight with them without expecting a moment of gratitude, doing it just because he wanted to. Because he loved them like sons, and because it was what was right.

Castiel was no longer out of hope.

Now, he burned with it.

So he collected his stories and his pride and the little piece of him that hadn’t been able to breathe until he had seen Balthazar smile at him, healthy and familiar and alive – and he walked in to meet the Winchesters and their questions with the smallest sparks inside of him, catching, flaring, spreading.


	23. Dancing With Our Hands Tied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy heck!! Two chapters in twenty-four hours!! And this one is nearly 5k words!!!
> 
> Three cheers for getting back into the swing of things, and for the hundred or so of you that have already read chapter 22 even after all of this time away.
> 
> Enjoy!!
> 
> x Kay

Castiel told them everything.

They sat around the kitchen – Castiel and Sam at the table, Dean leaning against the counter, Bobby at the doorway as if to make sure everyone sat their asses down and said their piece. To give the Winchesters credit, they didn’t move to interrupt, not even Dean, who looked like he was seconds from either punching a wall or never looking at Castiel again in punishment of having ripped him away from his entire life. Once Castiel had started speaking, he couldn’t stop, not when it came to everything Death had forced him to go through, including finding out about Balthazar working with Jo and having been hunting monsters for the better part of a year. And he told them about life between the Winchester tragedies, about how he had met Meg in college and how he had always known she was dark and it had taken years before he realized that he wouldn’t be able to help fix her. They listened carefully, Sam’s emotions on his face but Dean as readable as a brick wall since the moment Castiel so much as mentioned what happened in Lawrence.

Castiel had been keeping his secrets and emotions deep inside of his chest somewhere between his heart and lungs since he was fifteen years old and watched the Winchester house burn. Ever since, it had been evading psychiatrists’ inquiries and pouring every piece of himself he could spare into the obsessions of a madman. He had spent years being called abnormal or crazy for what he was doing to track down the Winchesters, but now – it was finally all starting to make sense. While Death had burdened him with so many things, he had also freed Castiel.

There was a reason. There was the strangest, craziest reason.

Castiel was always meant to end up here, at the Winchesters’ sides. Some predestined, alternate reality had made it so that they would always have found themselves right where they were, together. He had been crazy because some inner part of himself had known it, had still remembered the soul and grace of his other timeline and had zeroed in on Dean Winchester like a sigh of _There you are. I found you._

Castiel wasn’t crazy, at least not completely. And now that he was finally standing by and watching it all fall into place around him, he couldn’t help but to feel a rush of euphoric relief.

There was a special kind of peace in looking down the barrel of this endless disaster of blood and pain and everything that should not be possible while knowing that it was inevitable, and that if he died, it was because it was always supposed to be this way.

So Castiel didn’t let himself think of anything else, didn’t even touch on the idea of heading back home or anything else that he knew was impossible the same way Balthazar had to know. And the Winchesters, knowing all too well what happened to families in the hunter world, were the only people left in the entire world who might understand what Castiel was going through.

When Castiel finished speaking, a quiet silence filled the room, so much so that they could hear the pipes in the house rattling and the hum of the refrigerator. It wasn’t a silence of wondering what to say now, but wondering what their next move from there had to be. They had more options than they had ever considered – Balthazar and Jo, Meg and the demons. If they could cheat Death this one time, then what were the chances they would be able to do it again?

The faces in the room were grave, but Castiel pretended not to notice, even when Bobby muttered, “So you’re thinkin’ we should trust Meg Masters.”

“I think she’s telling the truth,” Castiel told him honestly. “Everything that’s happened is lining up with what she’s saying. Of course, it could be a coincidence, but after all of this? I highly doubt it.”

Sam reached up and rubbed his face before saying, “It’s hard enough to fathom that we started the apocalypse in some other universe, and even weirder that one of the four horsemen is asking us himself to fix it. Stretching all of that to include Meg being a good guy doesn’t seem that outrageous anymore.”

“And Ruby has always been a giant bitch,” Dean supplied helpfully, still scowling out the window to the kitchen, ruminating. “She’s definitely been helpful without any clear motivation to be. She always seems to show up when we get into a jam.”

“Lilith’s demons let her walk away without hurting her in Monument,” Castiel added, glancing toward Dean. He didn’t look back at him. “We should have noticed that was unusual then, but we had enough shit to worry about.”

“This is messed up,” Sam announced to the room like they had no idea, slumping down into his chair even as his hands gestured wildly. He looked like he was withering away, like he had aged several years since when Castiel had come to live with them. “This is so freaking messed up. We’re just some – some pawns. We’re pieces in some kind of twisted chess game.”

“So then let’s Ron Weasley this shit,” Dean declared, finally turning and looking at them. “Beat the game, steal the stone. Or whatever.”

“Dean’s right,” Bobby reinforced. “There’s nothin’ we can do but take down Lilith and try our damnedest to keep the world from ending, and everything we did in that other dimension wasn’t right. So we’ll do somethin’ else.”

“It’s something,” Castiel said, spreading his hands wide. “We just have to do _something_. Even if we fail.”

Dean glanced down at the floor with a scowl, like he could see through the wood to where Meg was lounging in her faulty trap. “And how do we know that she’s not another one of Lilith’s agents, playing the game?”

“If she is, then she would have been stupid to tell us anything at all,” Castiel replied. “Even acknowledging the other version of us would be dangerous. But she didn’t betray us then.”

“That we saw,” Dean muttered petulantly, but it fell on deaf ears. Sam looked distressed, resigned as he looked around at the rest of them, sinking down even further in his chair.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll trust her. Then what?”

“We make a plan,” Meg said from the doorway, scaring the hell out of all of the grown men in the kitchen. She smirked around at them. “One of you idiots scuffed the marks on the trap.”

Dean sent an incendiary look at Sam, who shot him the same look right back. Castiel and Bobby resolutely ignored them, turning instead to face Meg.

“We kidnap Ruby for information,” Bobby stated simply, raising an eyebrow. “And then what?”

“Once we have Lilith’s location, we can go from there,” Meg replied, leaning against the doorframe that Bobby had since abandoned. “She’ll know we’re coming, so we’ll need to have some insight into what kind of protections she’s working with. Knowing Lilith, she’ll be laced with some kind of spell. She’s too important not to be. But at least, once we know what we’re looking at, we can get a better idea of what to do from there.”

She looked at Castiel pointedly, impatiently. He met her gaze, confused.

She sighed, like this was her lot in life. “You’re going to need to kiss and make up with your brother dearest. Him and Jo Harvelle have been making heads roll in hell for the last couple of months, and they could know something we need even if they don’t know it. Worst case, we can use them as a bit of a distraction for Lilith. A sleight of hand. Send them into town just ahead of us, and when Lilith is keeping an eye on them, we flank her from the other side.”

“I’m not dragging Balthazar into this.”

“He’s two years older than you,” she remarked dismissively, like Castiel didn’t know. “You seriously can’t expect to boss your older brother around when he made the decision to go into hunting on his very own.”

Maybe that had been what was rubbing Castiel the wrong way – that his brother, who he shared a room with most of his life and who used to call him to bully him to eat even when they lived in entirely different states, would chose to let go of everything he had ever worked for. Balthazar had been a straight and narrow business man, but Castiel hadn’t even noticed the day that he had picked up and changed everything, training for battle with weapons and hunting books, seeping into the dark underbelly that Castiel hadn’t even begun to fathom yet.

Balthazar had learned that something was distorted in that bank, something wrong in the reality of the world. And so, he had picked up a weapon, and he had thrown himself head first into keeping it at bay.

He had Jo. He had connections. And more than anything, he knew exactly how to torture information out of demons.

Castiel felt like he was swallowing bleach, but he still managed to choke out, “You’re right. They know everything about the hunt for us, and we could always use the extra eyes and hands.”

“That’s the spirit,” Meg cheered, turning to beam around at the rest. “Hope you don’t mind the extra houseguests.”

Dean stared at her with a sour, sullen expression.

“I meant me,” she clarified to any of them that might not have understood, crossing her arms over her chest. “What, you can’t have expected me to spill my guts in here and then run back out to dodge bullets, did you? This place is a fortress, but more importantly, the demons aren’t stupid enough to let you numbnuts have home field advantage. They’re going to let you come to them, and that’s how you’re going to win.”

“How?” Sam asked. She shot him a brilliant grin.

“Because you four are the only ones stupid enough to try,” she said, shrugging. “And you’re the only ones smart enough to know that there’s no such thing as home field advantage.”

Castiel glanced over at Dean. He looked back at him, but his gaze was careful, reserved. Still thinking about – something.

Meg didn’t notice, or care. She loped into the kitchen like she was invited, flinging open the nearest cabinet. “So what kind of food do you hermits keep around here? A girl’s gotta maintain her luscious hips.”

And, somehow, that was the moment Castiel finally realized that he had given his ex-girlfriend permission to move into the same house where he and Dean were still tiptoeing around each other, and Castiel wondered if it would have just been easier to let Lilith’s hellhounds just drag him away.

~*~*~*~*~

Castiel spent the rest of the day mediating between Meg and everyone else, who she was trying to her damnedest to annoy the hell out of. She used to do the same thing to new friends in college, grinning and calling it ‘endurance training’, so Castiel fell into the same habit he had once been used to – apologizing for her behavior and trying not to think that it was funny.

He knew that there was an inevitable talk with Dean on the horizon. For how much he and Dean had always gotten along, they’d never been able to talk to each other much ever since they were about thirteen. Castiel knew why it was harder to open up on his end, because that had been around the time that Dean walking into a room had made his heart beat wildly out of his chest, around the same time that he realized that that might very well be what love felt like. Castiel figured Dean’s perspective on the events might have been different, if also similar – maybe a bit of the heart-pounding, but a little bit more family secrets. John must have been training Dean for hunting by then, if Castiel was remembering the Winchesters’ weekend trips to Dean’s grandparents’ ranch well enough.

They were never much for talking to each other because they’d always been able to just . . . tell. Dean knew when Castiel was upset and what to say to him when he was, and Castiel knew when Dean had needed to blow off steam, either from an event at school or at home. Back then, that had been enough.

But now, Castiel was too old to play these games. He had known that from the moment they had started playing them again, since all of the kisses shared in secret and the shared skin only behind a locked door. Bobby and Sam knew, or at least highly suspected, so it wasn’t them that Dean wanted to keep it muted from. Castiel, though, was sick of running.

When Meg had finally been coaxed into the demon bunker in the basement with Bobby muttering moodily that he didn’t trust her not to slit their throats in the middle of the night so behind a locked iron door she went, Castiel set out in search for Dean. Sam was still lounging on the couch, pretending to watch what was on television but his eyes weren’t focused. He’d nodded Castiel subtly toward the front porch, and Castiel had paused only to grab a few beers before making his way out into the beautiful South Dakota night.

Dean was indeed on the porch, his legs up on the railing and a small army of empty beer bottles lined up on the ground beside him. Castiel sunk without a word into the rickety empty seat, handing Dean one of the beers. Dean took it quietly, very carefully not looking at him, but did not move as if to take a drink.

Castiel followed Dean’s gaze. The stars were a little muted, despite how far from town they were. The lights were still on in Bobby’s house, casting a haze over the night sky. But even still, it was beautiful. Castiel took a deep breath, filling his lungs with so much fresh air that he half expected them to burst.

For a while, neither of them said anything. It wasn’t until Castiel was polishing off his beer and Dean still hadn’t touched his new one that Dean spoke in a soft voice, “We’re going to die, aren’t we?”

And because Castiel didn’t feel like lying, he said, “Probably.”

Dean nodded, still looking at the stars. “I don’t really care about that as much as I thought I would. I mean, Sammy and I have spent months scrambling for a way to keep me alive, but it had barely mattered to me. I’d done it to keep Sam happy, until you came into the picture and I knew that I didn’t want to die yet. You had looked so pissed off at the idea that I had given up that I couldn’t help but to hate myself a little for it, because you’d never given up on me all those years. Even if I’d given up on you.”

Castiel had known as much, but it still stung horribly to hear Dean say it out loud. Castiel wished he’d grabbed something stronger to drink – like whiskey, or mercury.

“Sorry,” Dean said like an afterthought, not sounding like he really meant it. “Growing up on the road with my dad, after my mom – I knew who I had to be. My dad had been trying to mold me into it since I was barely ten, convincing my mom that I needed to learn how to spar and shoot and be able to protect myself. After the fire, when I realized everyone had thought I’d done it . . . I knew you would be one of them. That I had let you down more than anyone else in my life, because I had been told that I couldn’t trust you with this big secret. Like you were a liability. So I gave up a long time ago wondering if I would ever see you again, because I knew I would never go back. And when we did – when Sammy and I took that case in our old house – I sat outside of your house for an hour, wondering if I should take the shot. Wondering what the chances were that you were still there. But I knew you weren’t. You’d never wanted to stay. So I’d walked away then, too.”

Dean finally took a swig out of the beer, and then another, until Castiel had barely taken two breaths and the entire bottle was empty. Dean dropped it down with the others, his eyes flashing over to check on whatever Castiel must have looked like. Even he wasn’t sure what expression was on his face. He hoped it was just something that Dean deserved.

Whatever Dean saw made him look away, so Castiel figured that it was.

“When you walked into that interrogation room in Arkansas,” Dean rasped, “I knew I recognized you, but I was just trying too hard to get to the hunt. To get out of that room and to Deacon’s jail so I could get all of it over with. When you said your name, and I realized that was why you were familiar, that it was because it was you and you were this badass special agent like you’d always wanted to be – and that you were against me. You were on the wrong side of things. I thought I would fucking die right there. I’d been so okay with not getting closure that the second you looked at me like I was a criminal, I thought I would fucking drown with it. Like you were holding my head under the water.”

Castiel had remembered the way Dean had looked at him that day. How his face had gone slack with shock, with something like fear. How he had looked at him with desperation in his eyes that he hadn’t understood.

Now he did. Now it made sense – how Dean had looked at him like he was a life sentence, like he was a bad nightmare.

Castiel knew what that felt like. Had felt it that day that he had seen Dean’s dead body, and every single day after that.

Castiel had spent his entire life chasing after Dean Winchester, because he felt like finding him would make it all come together, like Dean would have all of the answers. Dean had spent his whole life running away from Castiel, terrified of what he would think of him, horrified at the thought that Castiel would look at him like a murderer or a monster.

Ever since they were kids, they had cared about things in different ways. Dean had burned with fire and passion and beliefs he wasn’t afraid to scream at the top of his lungs. Castiel simmered. He held it all inside and let it heat up in his chest, and he acted when all signs pointed to go.

This was it. This was the biggest thing they had ever kept from each other, the subject that they had been so carefully avoiding since the first moment they left Denver and started down this rabbit hole. It had been three months of not mentioning it, of forcing themselves to remember only the good parts of what had happened, and now this was the ugly truth – the good parts didn’t really mean anything. They had been two different people, in two entirely different worlds.

Oh, they could exchange kisses and smiles until the sun went down. They could play this game of a perfect world until the end of time. But that wasn’t the people that they were becoming anymore. Dean had just cheated Death because Castiel had been brave, and now they were staring down the barrel of a gun that would not hesitate before taking their lives.

And Castiel was tired of it. Dean had to have been, too, to say all of this to him.

The gloves were off. Their rose-colored glasses were shattered.

So Castiel said, “I knew I loved you when we were fourteen.”

And Dean – flinched.

Oh.

Castiel went cold. With shock or anger or grief, he couldn’t tell. He figured it didn’t matter. Castiel pushed himself onto his feet, excuses on his tongue, his feet burning for him to run as far away as he could. But before he could do anything more than start to turn away, feeling like the world’s biggest fool, Dean’s voice cracked as he said, “I knew I loved you a long time before that.”

Castiel paused, and turned back. Dean was on the edge of his seat, staring at him in a panic. If it had been anyone else, Castiel might have thought it was a line fed to him to keep him to stay. But Castiel knew those eyes too well, could read Dean too easily. And it wasn’t a line.

Dean’s words were rushed, panicked, as if he wanted to cram in as many words as possible before he had to watch Castiel walk away, like this was his last chance: “It was a Thursday. We were in seventh grade, and you didn’t come to lunch, and I knew something was wrong. I found you cornered by a bunch of eighth graders, and there was blood on your face and your hands, and you looked scared out of your mind. And I lost it. I wanted to hit them, but I knew it would scare you, so I just made them leave you alone. And you looked at me like – like I was a hero. Like I was worth something. And that’s when I loved you.”

Castiel held his breath for a moment, two, three, before he whispered hoarsely, “You remember that?”

“Of course I do,” Dean said, his voice cracking. “I hated seeing you look like that. I did everything I could to make sure nothing ever hurt you again after that day.”

But that wasn’t right. That wasn’t possible, because this wasn’t a John Hughes movie. That was the same day Castiel started to crush on his best friend, but it wasn’t possible – couldn’t be – that Dean had already been crushing on him, that Dean had loved him for years longer than Castiel had.

“When my mom died, we were still hiding in town,” Dean told him, his voice shaking. He looked desperate, and sad, and like he was being ripped apart. Like he was ripping himself apart, just because he needed Castiel to know this before he walked away. “Just outside of town, just for a few hours, to make sure there was nothing we could do to save my mom. And my dad told me that we were never going back, and I lost it. It was the first big fight I had with my dad, because I refused to leave without you knowing what happened. I wanted to leave you a phone number – something, anything – but my dad wasn’t having it. He screamed at me until he was hoarse, and then he locked me in the backseat of the Impala with Sam and took off. He’d called you collateral damage, then. Like you were some kind of fucking object. So I stopped thinking about you, because it was easier than thinking about you all of the time and knowing I had abandoned you.”

Castiel remembered Sam in that motel room saying flippantly, _You were the reason Dean didn’t want to run in Lawrence._

Numb, Castiel sank back into his chair.

Dean’s eyes couldn’t stay still, bouncing between the stars and Castiel’s face and his own hands. Dean looked like he wanted to burst out of his skin and be anywhere but here, but he didn’t leave. He just sat in that rickety old chair, his heart in his hands, and murmured, “I never stopped thinking about you. Never.”

Castiel wanted to speak. He couldn’t find his voice.

“I’m not that person you knew anymore,” Dean confessed sadly, like he wished with everything that he could be. “I’m a piece of shit on a good day and an asshole on my best. I’ve done a lot of bad things, and I’ve not done a lot of things that I should have. I can’t even tell you that I would make you happy, because I don’t know if I will. All I’ve done is drag you away from your family and your life and shove you into dangerous bullshit that no one should ever have to deal with. I’m not a hero. But I could try to be.”

Dean looked at him. So vulnerable, so broken. Waiting for the rejection. Expecting it.

And Dean was right – he wasn’t the same person. Neither was Castiel. They’d spent about as much time of their lives away from each other than they ever did together. Dean had missed the most important years of Castiel’s life, and Castiel had missed his, and there was no way to change that. Their pasts were written in stone, but things had changed – Castiel had given everything he had to be here because he believed so much in Dean Winchester, and he had never doubted for a second that he would lay down everything else he had to fight with him against Lilith.

Castiel had loved Dean all of those years, and he came with him to get the closure he so desperately needed. And now Castiel loved the Dean Winchester that the teenager he’d known had turned into, the man who thought he wasn’t a hero and who looked at Castiel like he was worth more than the entire world’s weight in gold.

Castiel wanted to tell Dean about the year after he left, and how it had felt like Dean described about the interrogation room – like drowning, like being held under the water and forced to breathe in. He wanted to tell him how quiet it had been in his head when he had seen the Winchester house burning and knew that it was too late. He wanted to tell Dean that he didn’t have to be hero, but he was, even if he believed he wasn’t worth enough to be.

Castiel wanted to scream it at him. To tear himself apart and show Dean all of the broken pieces of himself, so he knew that he really meant it when he told him that Dean saved him.

He didn’t do any of those things. Instead, he stood again.

Dean closed his eyes, not wanting to see Castiel leave. But he didn’t. Castiel staggered forward a step and fell onto his knees in front of Dean, whose eyes flew open in surprise, but Castiel wasted no time before grabbing Dean’s face in his hands and kissing him, curling his hands into his hair and pushing up on his knees, desperate and broken and loving him so much that it hurt.

Dean wasted no time in grabbing him back, making a noise like a sob and holding Castiel’s face in his hands so, so soft.

They were broken, and bruised, and in an endless fight against the world. Maybe it had all been written for them, like all of the bad stuff. Maybe they weren’t just making up for their own lost time, but for all of the missed opportunities in another world, one where their stories were so different but they had still ended up in the middle of this mess together.

Castiel didn’t care. He didn’t bother to wonder if it mattered. He just threw himself into it head first, whispering love into Dean’s lips every time they had to break for air, gripping Dean as hard as he was gripping Castiel, both of them so carefully not thinking about what the future holds and all that they still had left to say.

They threw themselves into this moment, these exchanged whispers in the dead of night and their hearts that beat as one. And they did not look back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> My tumblr: shortenedlanguage.tumblr.com
> 
> x Slang


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